Something More Than This
by Mina3
Summary: Prequel to DAYG.  What came before for Harry, Draco, Hermione, and their families leading up to DAYG, and how they ended up the way they are.  Explorations to the unknown past, hidden hearts, and secrets that shouldn't be kept.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: JKR, Scholastic, Time Warner are the real owners and  
money makers, not I.

Warnings: Contains SPOILERS for all seven published Harry Potter  
books. And, also, this story will contain homosexual/heterosexual  
relationships, as well as mention of "cross-species" relationships,  
though all relationships are with individuals of "human" appearance.

Something More Than This  
Prologue  
The Fairytale of the Boy Who Lived

If the story of Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived—is a fairytale, it will begin "Once upon a time, in a land far, far away." And, if it is to mimic modern fairytales, it will end with something akin to "Good triumphed over evil, and they all lived happily ever after."

If the story of Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived—is a fairytale, it will be a complex one. Harry will be as Cinder-slut, forced into drudgery by uncaring family members who are extremely jealous of him, because his beauty, temperament, and empathy cause all who meet and know him to love him. Cinder-slut is barely allowed their castoffs to comfort him, and has no hope of changing his life but for the aid of outside, magical interference, the help of an archetypal prince-on-a-white-horse, and his fairy godfather.

(Eventually enter Albus Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, Ron Weasley, and the boys of Gryffindor, who will show Harry right from wrong as the ultimate authorities on such matters.)

Despite the fact that Harry has been forced to live in a cupboard under the stairs—and been locked in said cupboard for things like "punishment" and "his own good"—he seems to harbor no ill-will towards his relations other than occasional sub-vocal grumblings, no phobias of the dark, of small spaces, nor of the spiders that highly outnumber him, crawling with barbed many-legs across too-pale skin. In this paragon role, he fulfills saint-like imagery, the good and faithful child forgiving the bad and unfaithful so that they might be redeemed. And despite the fact that he has had no positive adult roll model, he will listen (within reason, for he must maintain some rebellion in order to fulfill his role) to and believe every adult wizard or witch he comes across (excepting the ones that ooze ill-temper and menace, of course).

And when he finds out the truth—that he is a wizard, and special because he defeated a powerful Dark wizard when he was barely a year old—Harry's life is suddenly a bit more like the Goose Girl crossed with Snow White; the kinder, simpler versions, because he seems untouched by the ugliness in the world. He will not dwell on the lies, the half-truths, or the omissions; he will simply take them at face value, and assume that everyone knows better, and that his ignorance is both all right and important. His lack of knowledge will not frustrate him until later in life, and by that point, people will apologize for the oversight, explain that it was in his best interests, and he will accept without complaint.

When he enters the "wizarding world" the fairytale will continue, because things are clearly black and white. Harry and his friends are avatars of the forces of good and Light. There are trials and errors in getting to that position, but it is a kind of destiny that seems to fall in place around them, three together, in accordance with older strictures of Light-based ceremonies, and symbolic of Christian traditions.

In contrast Harry's childhood arch-nemesis, Draco Malfoy, is spoiled and nasty, clearly bad, though not yet evil. Draco and his Slytherin cohorts will never pass a scheme by Harry and his friends—good always triumphs over evil in the end, and the triumvirate of Harry and his friends clearly outclasses Draco Malfoy in accumulated knowledge, bravery, cleverness, and physical prowess. After all, the only three-dimensional figures are obviously on the side of good and Light already, so the reasons that Draco Malfoy and other Slytherins may have for not being a part of the Light, Dumbledore, etc., are obviously unimportant, and make them less "real people" than Harry and his friends.

So to end the fairytale, Harry will redeem the bad who are not yet evil; will marry the pretty, spunky girl, sister of his best friend, who has always stood by him; his best friends will marry as well, always together in harmony; he will defeat the Dark Lord and his minions in a stunningly clever yet nearly obvious way; and he will live happily ever after in the Golden Age that he helped bring about.

But that's just a fairytale. Real life is always something else.


	2. False God, Broken Serpent

See Prologue for disclaimers and warnings:

Something More Than This  
Interlude: Past  
False God, Broken Serpent

_The clouds have covered the sky over the fortress for three weeks now, and it is only a subtle shifting in the smell of the air that tells Helga she has to go now, or risk never seeing him again. She gathers her skirts and rushes through the courtyard, ducking under the low-hanging portcullis, and dashing towards the woods._

_His back is to her, and he stands unmoving. She slows her pace and drops her skirt, a hand pressed to her chest as she catches her breath. "You would leave without a word?" she murmurs._

_A soft snort is carried to her, but he doesn't turn. She can only see his back, the ragged ruins of his once-fine robes, the lank tangles of his normally snow white hair. "You are the only one who even guessed, badgering woman that you are. And what good would it do to stay?"_

_"You've fought before." She steps closer, cautiously laying a hand to his shoulder. She feels him go rigid, but slowly the tension fades. "I know you haven't told me everything, and I respect your silence though it breaks my heart to see us all end so. I wish I knew what made this time so different from the rest."_

_"I am tired, Helga." His voice is soft and hoarse, and she cannot tell if it is caused by illness or emotion; rarely has he been seen out of the lowest levels the last three weeks._

_"We are all tired, dear one—you, perhaps, more than the rest of us, I fear."_

_"It comes, and it will continue to come. I can respect your opinion that you wish to teach them all, all of them who have the ability to use the magic in their veins. I cannot agree with it, though, or tolerate it any longer. Year after year the numbers grow, the children indoctrinated with this Christ, with this religion, and they in turn indoctrinate others. Our world is changing too much, and our values are lost and forgotten. Perhaps it is my own roots speaking."_

_His shoulder is tense under her hand again. "We will not be Sumer, nor Ǽgypt, nor the remnants of Mycenae or Parthia."_

_"Truly, it would be nice. I am not so kind-thinking."_

_"Dark your thoughts have always been, but they have always been welcome."_

_"No longer, I fear. It is time I take myself and thoughts away, to end my time in peace."_

_She digs her fingers into his flesh, turning him to face her. "Do not speak of your final end to me, dear one, or I fear I cannot let you leave," she snarls._

_His smile is both beautiful and heartbreaking, and she can see the worn lines in his face crease near his green, green eyes. "If I could, Helga, I would stay for you."_

_"Tell me!" she cries, hands grasping at the front of his robes. "What has caused this to happen? Why did the two of you quarrel? I thought it simply about the children again, but never have you been like this!"_

_His hands cover hers, gently pulling them away. "I will go, Helga, and shall not be stopped." His voice is as gentle as his hands, and she feels tears begin to burn in her eyes. "It is time that I returned to the fens and moors, to my roots, to my home—what is left of it. I have given you has much protection as I can, as much as will be allowed without protest or offending certain peoples sensibilities."_

_"Madness," Helga murmurs, shaking her head. "We began this together, and we should end this together."_

_"I shall be here in spirit," he says lightly. "And should you truly be in dire need, I will know, and will come with all haste to help. But I can take no more, Helga, not without breaking further."_

_"What of your children?" Her voice is soft, and she rubs at her eyes with her sleeve._

_"Here." A soft piece of cloth is pressed to her cheek, and she takes the kerchief with a tremulous smile. Winged serpent and solar cross, argent-verde on the pale grey cloth. "The children know," he says as she wipes her eyes gently. "I spoke with them this evening after meditations, and they know. Hadrian and Apollonius have promised to watch over them, though I know they will face a hard time from our compatriots for their origins. They are strong, though, and I have every faith they will persevere and keep my children all safe."_

_Helga draws a deep breath and slowly lets it out. "Why did it come to this?"_

_"All things must end, dear one. This just came sooner than hoped."_

_"Luck and long life, Salazar Silvertongue."_

_He smiles, and for a moment, she can see the old fire that used to light his eyes. "Peace and long life to you as well, Helga Heifelsdotter."_

_She watches as he draws within himself, fire fading from his eyes as he turns and walks into the forest. She watches until he is a shadow, until he fades into the mists that thread through the great trees. She listens to the baying of the wolves, the bugle of the centaurs, and the mournful cry of the unicorns as the forest falls to True Dark._


	3. A Mother's Vows, in Death and Bad Faith

See Prolgue for warnings and disclaimers.

Something More Than This  
Part I  
A Mother's Vows, in Death and Bad Faith

Narcissa sits in the Spring Parlor, clad in black and green, which is fitting for a night with so much weighing in the balance. Her eyes dart between her now-sleeping son and the doorway, fingertips flexing restlessly against the ash of her wand. Whatever it was that nearly _screamed_ along the Manor's leys earlier took nearly an hour to leave her head, and Draco, who had screamed awake along with it, was restless up until a few minutes ago. _So sensitive,_ she thinks, a small, wavering smile on her lips.

With a sound like a thunder crack, the Manor wards are suddenly tripped, signaling that someone has entered the home. Almost immediately they are reset, and then pushed into a form of emergency lockdown that Narcissa has never felt before. She begins to count to herself, eyes never leaving the door now.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Draco wakes, and Narcissa winces at both his scream and the ley backlash that causes him to scream once more. It's the second time tonight, and she can't help but wonder what on earth is going on outside the Manor. She moves to stand between him and the door, wand raised as she hums to sooth him. She picks up her counting once more, and prays to the Mother like she never has before.

At the count of sixty, she's ready to seal the room off when there is hurried pounding at the door. She trembles, but her eyes and will are hard, as the door is slowly opened.

Lucius stands pale in the doorway, Severus beside him. She looks closer and realizes Severus is using Lucius as support; the Potions Master's pallor is worse than her husband's.

Linen-white is not a good color on him at all.

"What's happened?" she asks sharply.

"I've activated the emergency wards," Lucius says heavily, his voice almost as haggard as his appearance. "I've never done it before, and it took a lot more out of me than I thought it would." He snorts, turning his head briefly to rest his forehead against Severus'. "Took more than I thought I had left to give, really."

"I felt that. But why?" Her hand is now steady, and she continues to point her want toward the doorway, though her eyes are looking more beyond them then at them.

"All the wards, Narcissa," Severus says. "Only family is in the Manor at the moment, and they will be the only ones in until Lucius puts the Manor on stand-down."

"_If_ I can put the Manor on stand down," Lucius mutters.

Narcissa takes all this in slowly. She notices Lucius' torn robes, a slow-bleeding cut on Severus' cheek, the dirt and ash and _red_ that covers what flesh is visible on the both of them. After a moment, she nods and dispels the parlor's barrier and ward, gesturing them forward. They are slow to proceed to the couch, hindered by exhaustion and each other, but equally unwilling to let each other go. She wants to help but is afraid of being a greater hindrance, so she turns to reactivate the parlor's barrier/ward system and shut the door instead.

Turning back to the men, finally settled on the sofa, she scans them for surface expressions and emotions. Her eyebrows rise, and she can't help the small gasp that escapes. "Oh, no…"

Lucius gives her a pained, weak smile, one of his hands knotted in a fold of Severus' robes, the other trembling while held up in supplication. "I would like very much to see my son before the interrogation begins, dear."

Emotions war within her, but ultimately Narcissa knows that denying Lucius his request would be coldhearted at best, mentally and emotionally devastating at worst. She crosses the room to Draco's cradle. He is staring up with wide, solemn eyes—Malfoy eyes—a fist pressed to his mouth. She smiles, smoothing his fine white-blonde hair back as she picks him up.

Crossing back to Lucius, she smiles as Draco burbles a happy, "Papa!" His chubby hands are reaching for his father before she has even fully held him out.

As Lucius embraces their son, Narcissa turns her gaze to Severus. Too pale by far, and traces of rage and grief that he holds far too tightly within; she know him too well, knows what has happened, and will shed her own tears later since it seems he cannot. "I trust the wound is clean?" she asks softly after a few moments, wand out to summon the medical kit.

Severus grimaces, shifting so that he is pressed to Lucius in a line from shoulder to hip. "Caught the tail of a Cutting Curse—it's worse than insane out there, and people were attacking thoughtlessly."

"I'm not sure I want Draco here for this conversation," she says, grabbing a rag and soaking it in water. She begins to clean Severus' face, noting that there is mud beside the blood, as well as tracks of salt that she won't mention. Perhaps there have been tears but, knowing Severus as she does, what tears he _has_ managed to shed are barely a drop to the swelled waters of sorrow he holds.

As if he just heard her comment, Lucius says, "Please, Narcissa. I want…I _need_ my son where I can see him."

His voice is more hoarse than before, and her heart clenches as she sees her strong, typically cool husband bury his tears in their son's hair. She can feel his need, his desperation, like veritable crashing tidal waves, and she can't deny him his simple desire. Turning back to Severus, she begins to apply a healing salve—the less traces of magic on them, the better, she knows.

Her hand clenches, and she forces it to relax as she wipes her fingers clean. She can't fully blame them for the madness they courted. There were times that she was equally tempted; if not for her mother's blood and training, it could have easily have been her sitting on the couch with Lucius and Severus. But what it had done to them—the Dark Lord, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic… She bites her lip, gently touching both men's jaws before turning away.

She takes refuge in playing hostess, allowing the men to collect themselves, allowing her room to accept a fact that she knows but has yet to hear voiced. When Dobby has brought everything she has asked for, she sets him to watching the Manor's main road—it can't hurt to be extra cautious.

When she has taken a seat across from them, tea held in one hand and saucer in the other, she says, "These are the things I already know: The Potters are dead, and your Dark Lord has suffered. However, all the truths have yet to be made clear to me."

Severus looks at Lucius before speaking, and she wonders how much of that is left over from a subservient role in the Dark Lord's Circle and how much is from before—from the awe-filled boy who was first welcomed by Lucius into Slytherin House, and later re-introduced by her when she became engaged to Lucius; both times that seem so very long ago. "We don't know all the truths either, I'm afraid. We certainly didn't expect Dumbledore's faction to leave the Potters completely unguarded."

"They were alone?" Narcissa asks sharply.

"And completely unaware of the Dark Lord's plans, it seems," Severus continues. His posture is tense, hands twisted together in his lap, and for a brief moment, grief ravages his face. "I doubt very much that Dumbledore said anything to them of their son's portended role in the Dark Lord's downfall."

Narcissa swears, and the men flinch at the words that trip from her mouth. Normally, their reaction would amuse her. Right now, she's far too angry to find any amusement at all. "Madness all around! And you wondered why I would serve neither man?" she snarls.

Lucius flinches, his gaze dropping away from her to their son. A part of her calls him a coward, but a greater part knows that she cannot call the man who has dangerously balanced all sides of himself on the precipice between sanity and madness for the sake of his family, at the risk of his life, a coward. "This was completely unexpected, Narcissa. We thought, given the regard Dumbledore seemed to bear the Potters, that tonight would be a perfectly set trap."

"Instead, it was a slaughter!"

Severus chuckles bitterly. "In more ways than one. The Ministry and St. Mungos are going to be quite busy for the next while, and I imagine that the Dementors shall be feasting well at Azkaban by the time all's said and done."

She nods, taking Severus' words and winding them into her own thoughts. It is exactly as she imagined it would be, yet it seems that hearing it aloud makes it seem worse than she dreamed. "And what shall we, the Malfoy family, expect from the Ministry?"

"I don't know," Lucius says, finally looking at her solemnly over their son's head. His eyes are shadowed dark—almost hematite—and burn in the washed-out canvas of his face. "We already have the residual effects of the Imperius Curse wearing off, so it won't work as our first line of defense—but Severus' Pensieve should be able to corroborate that much, and Dumbledore would be a fool to leave Severus out on a limb with the Ministry. Other than that, as usual, the family of "bad faith" has nothing to offer the Ministry other than money and a legacy of fear, and the old fool has no love for me or my line, so I expect no help from that quarter."

"Dumbledore did keep me in kind regard, though." Narcissa sets her tea down, tapping a finger to her lips. "My varied friendships throughout school give me some fallback, plus my family—despite Evan's very explicit insanity—the Rosiers have some small pull in this part of Europe still, and Sirius—"

Severus' groan interrupts her, and she looks at him sharply. He's shaking his head, one hand covering his face. She glances at Lucius, who won't meet her gaze. Eyes narrowing, she asks, "What happened to my cousin?"

"We don't know the whole story," Lucius says softly, and she can't tell if he's attempting to sooth her or if he simply hasn't the energy to speak louder. "And I doubt the news will hit anywhere else until the morrow. Supposedly, he is the one who gave up the Potters' location. Severus and I know full well that Sirius was never amongst our numbers, but there are others who will easily believe the possibility."

She shakes her head, sitting back abruptly into a small slump. "Regelus' death at your lord's hand hurt him deeply—not that he wasn't already deeply wounded before that. But, that, and the fact that he considered James Potter a brother—Sirius never would have betrayed them!"

"We here know that, but the Ministry demands a sacrifice. What little I was able to gather before we returned home is sketchy, but fairly reliable—and I doubt that even Dumbledore knows this much yet." Lucius pauses, closing his eyes. "Peter Pettigrew supposedly died confronting Sirius, somewhere in a Muggle setting, and thirteen Muggles were killed as well during the conflict. I expect that Sirius won't even stand trial, once they catch him. They're saying he's already mad, so there's no point in delaying his trip to Azkaban."

Narcissa slumps deeper in her seat, one arm clasped around her middle, the other passing a hand over weary eyes. "Utter madness everywhere," she whispers. Slowly, she straightens, jaw tight with the effort it takes to contain the screams she wants to unleash. "All right. We've spoken of the Potters—now, what of Lily's son?"

"He survived the Avada Kedavra death curse," Severus says. His eyes are haunted, expression a mixture of awe and anger. "Dumbledore has him in custody. As for where the boy will go, I heard whispers of a Muggle relative of some sort."

"Lily's sister. But Lily was rethinking that decision based on her sister's husband."

Severus rolls his eyes. "So neither Evans' woman made good choices in men, hmmm?"

Narcissa chokes back a laugh at his sarcastic drawl. "Yes, and your choices in men have been highly exemplary as well, my dear!"

They all laugh, though the laughter is tinged with exhaustion and hysteria. When they have settled, Narcissa decides to ask a few more necessary questions before letting them move on into their respective forms of black moods.

"Lucius, do you expect your father to come to the Manor at some point?"

"No." Lucius shakes his head, and she notices that a portion of his hair on the left side of his face has been raggedly cut to about cheek-level. "I fully expect my father to hide out in the Somerset house until he's got his various lies settled in place."

"Well and good—I don't think I could deal with Abraxas right now and not hurt him severely. Severus, when do you expect to be summoned?"

"I shouldn't stay," he says softly. "Dumbledore thinks I merely visit the Manor occasionally as a way to ingratiate myself with Lucius. I made an initial report to him in haste, in order to exchange what little information I had for the pittance I was returned, but then it was necessary to return. I'll be able to pass my current time here as a necessity after the attack, telling him it is to Lucius and my fellows unknowing of my other allegiances, but if I linger too long, he'll become suspicious."

"Don't you?" Lucius says with a tired laugh. "Spend time with me to ingratiate yourself, that is."

Severus smiles wanly. "I'd hit you if you weren't holding Draco."

"Hmmm. Note to self: Severus will hesitate if the enemy is using a human shield."

"Hmph. Whatever. As I was going to say, Narcissa, it's best if I leave now to make my reports—and maybe find out a few more truths. I'll return to Spinner's End for awhile after that."

"I hate that hovel," Lucius sneers. Narcissa notices that the hand that is knotted in Severus' robes tightens 'til the knuckles are leeched bone-white.

"As do I, but I'm not yet ready to reveal Schattenkreuz. I should be able to resume regular visits when the majority of the Ministry furor and the trials die down."

Lucius makes a noise close to a whine, pulling Draco tight against his chest. "That could take months!"

"Yes. But we must tread carefully." Severus' voice is soft, apologetic, and thick with unvoiced emotion, but his expression is firm. "Until we know more, we have to be even more cautious than we were before. They haven't examined us closely yet, and we don't want them to. For Draco's sake, and for the other children born into this time—few they may be, they are our last chance."

"Agreed." Narcissa gives Lucius a rueful smile, and then turns back to Severus. "Give us what you can. We'll be patient and wait for you to return to our home."

Severus rises carefully, and Narcissa stands to help him. He gently untangles Lucius' hand from his robes, squeezing gently before letting her husband's hand go. She wishes she could smooth his troubled expression, that she could sooth the pains he is keeping hidden, but she knows he won't allow it. She is a steady presence at this side instead, as he bends to kiss Draco's forehead, as he touches cheeks with Lucius. She keeps her fingers light yet firm on the heated skin of his arm, reassuring Severus silently that all will be well

She will make certain of it.

She kisses his cheek gently as she stands with him on the Manor's ward borders, and stares steadily into his sloe eyes as she says, "Go with the Father, dear Severus. The Mother awaits your return."

He nods, squeezes her fingers, and steps backwards through the wards. He is still staring at her, at the Manor and its occupants within when he Apparates away.

She returns to the Spring Parlor. Lucius is reclined on the couch, Draco appearing asleep in his arms. The fountain that was quieted in the center of the room has been activated, life-like nymphs spilling water from their pitchers in a steady, soothing trickle.

She stands in the doorway and listens to the melodic chant that Lucius is softly singing, a song older than memory, of the seasons, the elements, and the people of the world. She settles herself on the opposite couch once more, eyes watching over her family while her mind plots to do the same.

The next day, Narcissa looses her hair and wears a gown of gossamer white with vivid crimson trim. Her smile is a hungry tiger as she stands at the Ministry's directory desk and demands to see Millicent Bagnold, Bartemius Crouch, Sr., Rufus Scrimgeour, and Cornelius Fudge immediately.

When she stands to leave the crowded office hours later, her smile is the same as she thanks the four Ministry members for their time. Bagnold's expression is inscrutable; her eyes shadowed windows offering nothing accept the quiet acquiescence to Narcissa's demands. She ignores Fudge's blubbering attempts at calling her back and Crouch's cold, angry eyes. She nods to Scrimgeour, who nods in return, wearing a bemused smile.

Narcissa's last thought as she looks around the Ministry before Apparating home to her family is, _What a waste of magic and lives they've made here.  
_

* * *

Narcissa writes to her birth mother, full of trepidation. They haven't spoken since her wedding, and their relationship has been strained since she was a teenager as it is. But there is no one else she can ask these questions of—what to expect of her son, who is physically like his father but magically like them both, what the world of the Others is like in the wake of the Dark Lord's fall, and what the situation outside of Great Britain is like, dealing with the Ministry's stranglehold. 

She sends the letter with Munin, hoping that the white raven will show how sincere and serious she is. She has watched Lucius retreat emotionally from everything, even his son, and her heart aches at the hard, frost exterior that is slowly becoming part of his thoughts and emotions as well.

She contacts Inferna Zabini, Dahlia Parkinson, Aurora Sinistra, and Valentina Ansuz, inviting them to the Manor ostensibly for tea. On the day they meet, she ushers them into her solarium, warding the door behind them.

She looks them over, each in turn. Inferna, with her dark, sultry looks, dressed in flowing folds of charcoal and white. Valentina, curls piled on her head, wearing the standard, straight-laced black of school robes, the hems bright with silver and red fire, spelling out the runes she teaches. Aurora, night-dark hair a straight spill to her waist, the gold shifting pattern of stars evident in the deep blue of her robes. Dahlia, dark blonde hair twisted severely up, the red of her robes so dark they appear black.

"Dark" witches, all of them, and all graduates of Hogwarts' Slytherin House. Or close to, in the case of Inferna, who had trained under the Sisters of Pythia in Greece. These are women who are strong, though, women who have faced many the same trials she has. For that, she is willing to risk trusting them in order to fix things.

Inferna laughs as she takes a seat, sloe eyes bright with amusement. "So, other than tea, what are we really here for, Narcissa?"

Smiling wryly at Inferna's candor, Narcissa sits and begins to serve the tea as she speaks. "You are the few that I trust with this kind of talk. Like me, Inferna, you refused to choose a side in the war, despite the pressure you received to do so. Valentina, Aurora, neither of you chose as well, despite the fact that you work at Hogwarts under Albus Dumbledore. And Dahlia, though you took the Dark Mark, you did so for the sake of family, not from madness or for power."

Dahlia flinches slightly, but her expression remains neutral as she slowly nods. "Yes. But what does that have to do with this meeting?"

"Everything," Valentina says with a laugh, glancing at Aurora, who is hiding a smile of her own. "The runes and stars told us. Hasn't your home spoken as well?"

"I wasn't sure," Dahlia says slowly. She looks thoughtful, a finger pressed to her lips. "With what happened, that night…the magics and bindings that began to break down from me after the Dark Lord's fall…" She shakes her head. "I couldn't be certain of anything I sensed."

"Be certain," Inferna says, leaning forward slightly. "My sisters in the east spoke of it—they felt it out there."

"What did we feel though?" Aurora murmurs. She twists her hair over her shoulder, and reclines against the arm of the lounging chair. "The stars show a potential, a chance for unbinding, for returning home. Those of us with old ties, still close to our blood and old homes, felt the surge across the leys and the temporary failure of the guard wards. But it was brief and wild, and unexplained by the Ministry."

"Since when does the Ministry explain anything?" Dahlia says with a growl. Her sherry-brown eyes flash with gold, and Narcissa makes a sign of peace. Dahlia takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out before continuing. "Have you seen the Azkaban lists, the ones who were placed there without trials? They've put children in there for earth's sake!"

"Yes, and you won't hear the Ministry explain the ward lapse any time soon." Valentina reaches into her robes, removing the raw silk pouch that contains her runes. She hums and her fingers slip through the bones—stag horn, Narcissa knows—and slowly begins to place a layout on the table.

"Even Dumbledore had nothing to say on the matter—said it was simply due to so many Ministry officials and Aurors being active and allowed tap-access that night," Valentina murmurs. The bones make soft clacking noises as they're touched to the tabletop. There are six "stones" out when she is done, and she taps a nail to each in turn. "I asked the question of what I felt that night. This is the fourth time I've done so, including immediately after whatever it was we felt. And this is the fourth time I've received the same answer.

"Tell me, Dahlia, Inferna, did your children wake screaming the night of All Hallows Eve?"

The two women share a look, and then look to Narcissa. Narcissa nods, smiling faintly. "Yes, Draco did the same, as did any Pureblood child whose families still acknowledge their origins, I imagine."

After a moment of sipping her tea and contemplating the ripples, Narcissa continues. "The backlash came during the time when the Dark Lord attacked the Potters. James died first, then Lily Evans, attempting to shield her child. Then the Dark Lord turned on Harry, and his power was rebounded somehow. I'm not certain what happened, but I think the moment of backlash began at Lily Evans' death—something she did, something unknown, that was done in desperation to save her son's life."

"Dumbledore is telling us it was the power of love," Aurora drawls. Narcissa can't help but chuckle along with the others when Aurora rolls her eyes and shudders dramatically. "But we are not so foolish as to believe that "love" shattered the Dark Lord's reign. How many families had been slaughtered, parents dying—_mothers_ dying—in an attempt to protect their children? I'll admit that there was always something different and special about Lily Evans, but it's not something as mundane as a mother's love for her son."

"I don't think it will be easy to understand what Evans did," Dahlia says. "She was odd, even for a"—she glances at Narcissa—"Muggleborn."

"I met her once, years ago, when my parents were thinking of having me transfer to Hogwarts. I found her intriguing. Smart, fairly powerful, pretty in a very old-fey way. When I was told she was Muggleborn, I was confused," Inferna murmurs. She looks down at the heavy twists of metal that make up her casting rings, lips pressed in a small frown. "She had a grasp of magic's intrinsic nature that I had never seen outside of those raised in the old ways. Furthermore, she had none of the fear or fumbling that is usually seen in a child raised without magic."

Aurora makes a slashing motion with her hand. "Dumbledore often used Lily as an example of what Muggleborns were capable of—just as fit in magic as Purebloods, he'd say—but I often thought that wasn't a fair example. Lily was exceptional period. And I've never seen a Muggleborn perform as well as she did, academically _and_ magically. It's not unusual to have them perform well on paper, in study, but their magical aptitude typically isn't very high."

Inferna leans forward, eyes intent. "Then what of the son? Dumbledore and the Ministry have let it slip that the son is the one who defeated the Dark Lord. And the Prophet reported quite…heavily on the "celebrating" the so-called Light wizards were doing the day after the Dark Lord's defeat. However, they reported nothing on young Harry and his current situation."

"He's not defeated," Dahlia says sharply, hand covering her left forearm, where they all know the _Morsmordre_ mark lies covered. "True, his power shattered that night, but we are still branded by him. If he were truly gone—or, if his power were truly banished, at least—there would be only a scar and taint, as what happened with Grindelwald's Knights."

"Lily's son has been given into the custody of Lily's Muggle sister," Narcissa says. "Dumbledore seems to think the boy safer away from out world."

"He doesn't want him to have a swelled head is basically what he said," Valentina replies tartly. She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest. "As if the boy could, knowing that his parents died anyway, Dark Lord defeated or no."

"Lily was my wand sister," Narcissa says softly. "I suppose, given today's state of affairs, it's better to say she was my circle partner. She balanced and complemented my magic, which even my husband cannot do. They were near equals in measure of sheer power, but Lucius, despite his affinity for air and water, could never balance me as well as Lily."

"And Potter, while Old Blood, was a good wizard at best," Aurora says with a snort. "I was very shocked to learn of Lily's decision to marry him. She could have done much better, despite her blood status—the one Baddock boy from Ravenclaw and the Goldstein cousin were definitely interested. Even Marius Nott was quite taken with her, and lords know that he couldn't have done worse than he did!"

"I actually thought Snape was quite taken with her," Dahlia says slyly, glancing at Narcissa.

"I don't always know Severus' mind," Narcissa drawls, "but you aren't incorrect. In many ways, if for no other than heirs, I often hoped they would get together. Lily was, I think, the only non-Slytherin he ever tolerated, let alone took seriously."

"As much as I am enjoying the gossip—since it seems I miss an awful lot in the east wing of the dungeons—perhaps it's best we get back to the topic at hand: What the phenomena on the thirty-first of October was, and what it all means," Valentina says, mismatched eyes of green and brown flashing humor and seriousness at the same time.

"All right, then, I'm going to be uncharacteristically blunt in my assessments and opinions." Narcissa's expression sobers, and she leans forward to circle her finger over Valentina's rune layout. "I think there is much of the situation unknown—too much for my liking, but I'm afraid that the dead are grudging with their secrets. But there was something special about Lily—something I'm certain she passed on to her son. And there was something about James Potter that prompted Lily to suddenly change her opinion of the man and marry him so quickly—or some form of coercion, which is disturbing to consider.

"We have the fact that Dumbledore is spreading tales that shouldn't be believable to anyone with a brain, yet the majority of the population seems to believe them. We have a powerful child, at least a halfblood, who is going to be raised in total ignorance of our world and his heritage."

"I smell a conspiracy," Inferna interjects with a smirk.

"As do I," Narcissa says with a nod. "Dumbledore is planning something—what, I don't know—but it's too perfect that Lily's child is completely cut off from his parents, their friends, and our world."

"Elaborate, please," Dahlia says. She cocks her head to the side, a fingernail trailing around the edge of her teacup. "What other options were there for the boy, other than this Muggle relative?"

"Ignoring the fact that every magical family in Britain would have killed to raise the boy the Daily Prophet and historians have heralded as the Child Who Lived? Very well, I give you the people who should have been given options concerning Lily's son.

"Sirius Black, the boy's legal godfather—imprisoned for killing Peter Pettigrew, thirteen Muggles, and betraying the Potters. Peter Pettigrew, James Potter's friend—dead, though Lily never liked the poor bastard much. Felt sorry for him, yes, but never liked him. Remus Lupin, both James and Lily's friend—denied rights due to some disease stemming from childhood, not to mention an emotional wreck from the entire thing. I—denied utterly, despite being registered as magical kin to Lily, on the grounds of Lucius' magical leanings and his pending trial. Severus is barred for similar reasons. Add to the fact that James Potter's parents were quite old, and died before the child was born, and Lily's parents were killed under mysterious circumstances right after their marriage—there are no grandparents left, which is typically how we allot children in the magical community."

"I see," Dahlia murmurs. She removes her fingertip from her cup and taps it to her lip. "Then what you're saying is that Dumbledore is deliberately keeping the boy in isolation and ignorance."

"Yes."

"But for what? What do you see ultimately coming from doing such a thing?" Dahlia scowls at her arm. "As I mentioned earlier, the Dark Lord isn't dead, merely injured. He will arise again, and be after the boy with a vengeance for the humiliation this caused him. Many of the Old Blood may be falling into madness faster than ever before, but the Dark Lord is easily the maddest of us all."

"That's it right there—the Dark Lord," Aurora says. She looks at each of them in turn, slowly spreading her hands out to encompass them all. "If you saw a potential weapon, wouldn't you want to train it, mold it to suit your purposes and needs? And what better way to keep it under control than by being its savior, its only source of information and "truth"?"

"You think he's doing this to take credit for the boy?" Inferna asks skeptically. "That seems too tame for what I recall of the man—and too unpredictable."

"But recall again that Dumbledore has ever been a proponent of the Ministry and its edicts. True, he is considered a Pureblood in the loosest terms, as there are dilutions of Muggleborn intermarriage, but only the origins of his many-times ancestor, Rowena Ravenclaw, have any true power. He is a man who detests change and is slow to accept it, much like the Muggles he professes to love. I fear there is much of Albus Dumbledore that the majority is unaware of, thing that will only come out upon his death. However, I think it safe to say that he isn't willing to risk the rise of a Breaker," Aurora points out. She sits back, sipping her tea. "I think Dumbledore is too old to accept a return to the Old Ways, and I think he is unwilling to risk the damage that a return of the Old Ways would do to the Muggles who have spread so quickly and far across the earth. And, really, he'll be planning extensively for the boy. He loves his plans, and is careful to plot all possible outcomes. He'll leave little for chance."

Dahlia sucks in a gasp, eyes incredulous as she turns to Narcissa. "Is that what you think _that_ was? Not a lapse on the Ministry's part, but the boy actually pushing back the ley wards?"

"Yes," Narcissa says firmly. "I believe Lily started it when she died trying to save the boy, and the boy unconsciously latched onto the power, pushing the wards back further in his childish fear of the situation."

"To do such a thing…they would have to not be bound to the wards in the first place. If that's the case, and Dumbledore suspects, don't you think he'll try and bind the boy?" Inferna asks. Shaking her head, she smiles and laughs ruefully. "As is obvious, I'm still basically new to the Britain wards, and I understand little of what is done to the people here. Further east, such things just aren't done."

"He would have had to bind Lily first to do that—otherwise he has to wait until the boy is at least fifteen," Valentina says. "You, Inferna, are bound from the general leys, and it was done upon your first marriage here and decision to stay in Britain. Children are automatically bound through birth, when they are born to parents already bound. Most children aren't strong enough to even touch the leys until they are at least fifteen, and it's a Ministry law that they can't be bound earlier than fifteen if the line they come from is new to Britain. Not to mention that it takes a cabal of twelve to do the binding ritual."

Narcissa tries to remember the last time there was a cabal called by the Ministry, and can only think of two cases in the last twenty years: Once, to track down Evan Rosier, and another time to close a portal near Wales. She tries to imagine a cabal being called, the announcement in the paper reading that Harry Potter will be Bound from ley and home, Bound to British soil and wards—and she doesn't even want to picture the potential reaction.

Shaking her head, she says, "If they are to try to bind him from an ancestral ley, they first have to know where that ancestral home is—and even I never saw Lily's childhood home. I know that Dumbledore hasn't either, as Lily received her post somewhere in a nearby town, and that's the address the Hogwarts mail was sent to. She and her parents met with the Ministry representative somewhere in that town, and not at their home."

"If the mail had to be delivered elsewhere, does that mean that the house wasn't registered with the Muggle government either? Or, does it go further, like our ancestral homes, and mean that the house is Unplottable and Unmappable for those outside and not of our blood?" Valentina muses. "My ancestral home is small, and so remote, that few would bother to try and find it anyway, and such things were never really in my area of interest.

"It's possible," Narcissa murmurs. She waves her head in a vague gesture toward one of the walls. "The Manor, for instance, is both, and reinforced with charms to prevent notice by people passing by. However, people that already know exactly where the Manor is can Apparate right outside the wards easily. We can't prevent that knowledge, and it's illegal to make someone forget the knowledge. After all, the Ministry keeps tabs on all of us and our homes.

"The assumption I have made from this knowledge is that the boy is half-bound, due to his father being from the Potter line, and the old home of Thaineheim. It would happen to pass on to any children he had. Lily, however, if she wasn't bound—a high potential given the fact that the Ministry rarely bothers to Bind Muggleborns, as they have no ancestral homes, and are rarely powerful enough to tap the leys—Lily being Unbound would have passed on to her son as well.

"As for the potential of Lily's childhood home, the only one who knows _that_ home's location now is Lily's Muggle sister, and I'm afraid we won't be able to speak with her any time soon," she concludes with a sigh.

"Dumbledore already covered that angle, has he?" Dahlia asks archly.

"From what I've heard, he used a Familius Vow and Ward of some sort. And only Dumbledore knows the location; anyone else brought to the house will forget its existence until the boy is old enough to enter Hogwarts or Dumbledore specifically tells them the location—and you can bet he won't be handing that information over to anyone that he's not certain he has complete power over," Narcissa finishes somewhat bitterly.

"Still, it's hard to believe the magical community at large is just accepting all this," Inferna says. "I'm surprised the Diplomatic community hasn't said anything, at least. Many other countries wouldn't tolerate this, you know."

"If they do say anything, our Ministry will squash it. Dumbledore is their Light Avatar, after all. He defeated Mad Grindelwald and his Walpurgisnacht Knights, and held off the Dark Lord Voldemort for eleven years. The only official who doesn't stand in awe of him is Chief Auror Rufus Scrimgeour, but that's less to do with blood and more to do with the fact that Scrimgeour feels the Ministry shouldn't be meddled with by outsiders. His opinion is that if Dumbledore wants to influence the Ministry, he should be part of the Ministry. He doesn't like the fact that so much of the Ministry listens to and follows Dumbledore blindly." Narcissa chuckles, shaking her head slightly. "Saying that aloud, he really doesn't sound much different from us."

"Too bad it's too soon to being playing at revolution again," Dahlia says with a bark of laughter.

Narcissa sighs. "Exactly. But it isn't too soon to begin planning for the future. Three of us here have children who will not only be year-mates to each other, but to Lily's son as well. And two of us here will be teaching those children at Hogwarts."

"So, an agreement to raise our children well and together?" Inferna asks with a smile.

"Yes, but more than that." Aurora leans forward, looking at each of them in turn once more. Her gaze looks deep, and Narcissa smiles at the play of starlight behind her eyes. "I say, here and now, an agreement to set them on a path to thwart those like Dumbledore, who wish to manipulate and push them into set paths, and to protect the Breaker."

"I don't know." Dahlia looks down at her hands, fingers laced tightly together in her lap. "I don't feel right forcing my daughter to be a certain way, like my parents did to me, to my brother—like many of our parents did to our generation."

Narcissa reaches over and touches her hands, willing that she be relieved of her anxiety. "For the moment, I'm asking for nothing more than allowing our children to grow up together—to play and learn with each other. I agree that we shouldn't influence their personalities, for such stuff does much damage emotionally, mentally, and magically.

"But I do think there are certain things they should be taught: The Old Ways, the horrors of war and misunderstanding, the importance of patience and tolerance, and the understanding of exactly _why_ they are different." She holds her other hand out in entreaty, looking to Inferna, to Aurora, to Valentina. "Let us not lie to them and falsely build them up like our parents did us. Give them confidence and knowledge, yes, along with other necessary survival skills, but try to keep them from the road that seemed so hopeful and so promising to our generation. Point out our faults and mistakes so that they don't repeat them. And teach them that there may yet be hope, if we take action with Harry Potter before Dumbledore can."

There is silence while they all consider, and Narcissa carefully bites the inside of her cheek to still her impatience. Finally, Inferna raises her head and holds her left hand out, palm up. "I swear by blood and fire, to hold such treaty with you, Narcissa Black-Malfoy, and any one else here who so swear. My child, Blaise, shall be raised with your own, taught with your own, brought up in the elements of the earth, the turns of the seasons, and the flow of night and day."

Valentina laughs as she holds her hand out in similar manner. "I swear by blood and runes, to hold such treaty with you, Narcissa Black-Malfoy, Inferna Zabini, and any one else here who so swear. I shall teach your children, who shall be raised together, brought up in the elements of the earth, the turn of the seasons, and the flow of night and day."

Aurora holds her hand up next, her fierce smile triumphant. "I swear by blood and the long-lived stars, to hold such treaty with you, Narcissa Black-Malfoy, Inferna Zabini, Valentina Ansuz, and any one else here who so swear. I shall teach your children, who shall be raised together, brought up in the elements of the earth, the turn of the seasons, and the flow of night and day."

Narcissa smiles softly, and holds her hand up, fingertips touching the three sworn women's. "I swear by blood and water, to hold such treaty with you, Inferna Zabini, Valentina Ansuz, Aurora Sinistra, and any one else here who so swear. My child, Draco, shall be raised with your own, taught with your own, brought up in the elements of the earth, the turn of the seasons, and the flow of night and day."

All eyes turn to Dahlia now. The blonde bites her lip, her gaze turned inward, shoulders hunched. After a moment, she lets out a deep breath, and looks up with a determined expression. She holds her right hand out, palm up, and says, "I swear by blood and earth, to hold such treaty with you, Narcissa Black-Malfoy, Inferna Zabini, Valentina Ansuz, Aurora Sinistra, and any one else who should ever wish to so swear. My child, Pansy, shall be raised with your own, taught with your own, brought up in the elements of the earth, the turn of the seasons, and the flow of night and day."

"So sworn and witnessed!" Inferna says, and the hands of all the women touch at the center of the circle they've formed.

Narcissa smiles at the tingle of the oath, not a binding one like some, but magic-full nonetheless. She directs the topic to something more gossip-like, and the women relax, talking and laughing together as they've had little ability to do in the past several years.

She thanks each of them when they stand to leave, several hours later. When she sits for dinner with Lucius, though it pains her still to see him so cold, she no longer feels that hope is lost.

* * *

Munin returns two weeks after being sent with his missive. Narcissa feels a spark of _something_, a hope of a kind, because he has returned with a sealed envelope, which means that her birth mother hasn't at least dismissed her completely.

She touches the raven's crown with gentle fingers, murmuring thanks as she takes the envelope. She takes a few deep breaths as she turns it over, looking at the tri-marked seal—wheat-sheaf, river, and spinning wheel—and slowly breaking it free. She pulls the parchment out, that spark in her chest growing at the thickness of the letter. She calls Dobby to bring her more tea, and settles deeper into her chair to read.

Lucius finds her there hours later, staring into the dying light of the sun. His hand on her shoulder is heavy, trembling, and she carefully covers it with her own.

"Hyacinth sends her regards, and is happy to hear news of our son," she says softly.

He says nothing in return, his hand twitching briefly in hers.

"She also says…we must remember what came before, what we _all_ were before, if we are to succeed with our plans. There are powers we have forgotten, she says, and we need to know them to break our current situation into one that gives us a chance for freedom."

"I don't suppose she gave any indication of how to do that?" Lucius murmurs.

Narcissa turns to look at him, sighing softly. His eyes are shadowed, though settled in their natural tri-tone pearl, silver, and grey. "It will take time, dear. A lot of effort into finding out the histories that were destroyed and buried, and effort to keep others that would stop us from catching on."

He makes a soft sound of understanding, and pulls his hand free from hers. She feels cold at the loss, but doesn't let it show. "Anything else?" he asks distractedly, gaze fixed out the window on something that only he can see.

She hesitates for a moment, then says, "We should be prepared to spend a lot of time near the water with out son. Hyacinth feels that he will display our talents faster than we ourselves did."

Another soft sound, and Lucius bows his head. His expression is hidden by the curtain of his hair, despite the fact that he'd cut it chin length after All Hallow's Eve. "We have the baths, and the pond and fountains here at the Manor. But perhaps we shall spend time at the house in Normandy, if that's to be the case."

He turns and leaves abruptly, murmuring their son's name, Severus' name, and Narcissa refuses to let go of her hope. She will get her family through this, they _will_ succeed.

Even if she has to sacrifice herself to that end.


	4. Strength of Flowers

See Prologue for disclaimers and warnings.

Something More Than This  
Part II  
The Strength of Flowers

When Petunia Dursley wakes to a night-dark room, heart thundering in her chest, sweat sticking hair to her face, she immediately rolls over to check the time. 04:40 flashes from the red digital display of their new alarm clock, and she frowns slightly. She turns to Vernon, mouth slightly open but closing abruptly when she realizes that Vernon is snoring obliviously, one arm thrown over his face.

Shaking her head, she rises from bed and throws on her robe, padding quietly down the hall to her son's room. She stands over the crib, smiling softly as Dudley knuckles his face, yawns, and rolls a bit to one side, all without waking. She leans forward and kisses his head, smoothes his hair a bit, then leaves to check the rest of the house.

She is confused as she wanders through the house. Vernon and Dudley are perfectly fine, and the neighborhood appears as quiet and calm as ever as she peers out the windows. Each room checks out, everything in its place, and she wonders what could have possibly woken her when everything seems perfectly fine.

In the kitchen, she sets up the coffee pot and checks the fridge for breakfast items. Eggs and back ham, she thinks. Maybe some oatmeal, to help fortify for the turning weather. She reminds herself that she still needs to make Vernon's lunch, and write up a grocery list for later.

The coffee is done, and Petunia sets her mug on the counter, measuring sugar, cinnamon, cocoa powder, and vanilla in the mix she likes. Vernon says it's disgusting, both her coffee habit and the flavor, but it's the one thing she refuses to budge on, this last connection to the sister she hasn't seen in five years. She goes to the fridge again to retrieve the milk, and frowns when she notices how little is left. There's enough for her coffee, but not breakfast.

There's always a possibility that the dairy delivery could be early, and, if not, it is never later than 06:30. Petunia decides to check anyway, and hums faintly as she makes her way to the front door, checks the windows, undoes the locks, and slowly pulls the door inward.

The light outside is strange, muddy and casting eerie shadows. Petunia shivers in the morning chill, and hurriedly looks down for the dairy.

Her breath catches, a scream caught in her throat as her eyes take in the barely-covered baby gazing up at her with wide, wet eyes and a dirty face. She notices the crumpled edge of an envelope stuck between the baby's body and some sort of baby carry-all, and hastily glances around the neighborhood. She is the only person outside, and the rest of the houses continue to lie dark and quiet in the too-early morning.

With a small sound of dismay, she hurriedly ducks down and grabs up the basinet, rushing back inside and re-locking the door. She's panting, trembling as she leans against the door, basinet clutched to her breast. Still tense, her eyes dart around the house, alighting on the soft light spilling from the kitchen doorway.

Small steps, she tells herself, avoiding looking down at her burden. She enters the kitchen, setting the baby on the table. She steps to the fridge and grabs the milk, adding it to her coffee. She watches it splash, drops hitting the counter top. With barely a thought, she grabs a larger mug from the cupboard and switches the contents, reaching into the above-stove cabinet for the bottle of rum that she keeps there for "emergencies." She adds a shot, pauses to consider, then adds a second. Stirring, taking a deep breath, she tips the mug back and drains half.

The slow burn, the dark, familiar taste, and Petunia is suddenly both calm and more awake. She feels steadier, fortified as she makes her way back to the table, to the quiet, solemn baby who has, apparently, watched her every motion.

She sets her cup down, staring at the baby who had been left on the stoop of her home. Her hand trembles once more as she softly brushes unruly tufts of black hair from his face. There is a scar, livid as if fresh at his right temple, and he whimpers when her fingers trace over it lightly, the first sound she's heard him make. Her gaze drops to his eyes, and her breath catches once more, hot tears burning in the corners of her own eyes.

Green is far too simple a word to describe those eyes—variegated green, perhaps, but it seems that a description should be more poetic, using artists' colors to describe them. Either way, though, those eyes are her undoing, as always. First her father, then the tiny form of her baby sister flash in her memory, until the tears pour freely down Petunia's cheeks.

"This isn't how I wanted to meet your son," she whispers, voice harsh, seeming overly loud in the too-quiet kitchen. "Oh, Lily, what the bloody hell happened?"

The baby with Lily's eyes and _that man's_ hair cannot answer, and simply continues his solemn staring—so wrong, she thinks, knowing those eyes look best filled with laughter, mischief, and love.

With a sigh, she grabs a rag from the drawer by the sink, wets it, and begins to carefully clean the baby—Harry, she suddenly remembers. Lily had written the birth announcement a bit over a year ago, and Petunia remembers distinctly the name Harry, because it, like Petunia's Dudley, was out of place in their family's regular naming system.

Harry's face now clean, Petunia pauses to sip her coffee, which has gone tepid. The kitchen isn't the best place to be comfortable and ponder, she thinks, glancing at the wall clock. 05:10, it reads, and God, has it only been half an hour since she was frightened from bed? It seems so much longer than that since she had found Harry, alone, left on the stoop.

That thought brings her up short, and her fear and sorrow are suddenly overrun by the hot burn of anger. They left him, alone, on the stoop! God, how long had he been out there? How dare _anyone_ do that with a child, especially one so young and helpless? If she had been Lily—

If Lily—

Petunia chokes back the sobs that want to burst forth, scrubs fiercely at her eyes, takes a deep breath and then slowly releases it. Slowly, carefully, she retrieves Harry from the carry-all and settles him against her hip. She stares at the letter, the calligraphy of Mrs. Petunia Dursley (neé Evans) seeming stark and bleak, matte black on crumpled cream. She grabs it, shoving it in her robe pocket. With her free hand, she grabs her coffee, and heads for the living room.

She settles on the couch, Harry in her lap, and takes a deep drink before retrieving the letter. She's proud that her hands are steady as she breaks the seals on the back—one she recognizes from Lily's school, the other a stylized "D" with some sort of winged insect and drooping plant at the center. She pulls out the folded pieces of parchment, nostalgically reminded of Lily's many letters from school, and begins to read.

When she is done, she is too empty for thought. She sets the letter aside, pulls Harry to her chest, and cries softly into his fine, dark curls for all the things they've both lost.

* * *

Vernon stumbles into the kitchen at half past seven, glaring at Petunia accusingly. "I'm going to be late! Why the hell didn't you wake me, Petunia?"

She's angry—far too angry to deal with his childish temper this morning. Most of the time, she finds his moods endearing, like a petulant child. Today, it's simply irritating. "I'm not your bloody maid or mother, Vernon. You have an alarm clock and are perfectly capable of setting it."

Vernon pauses from fumbling with his tie, stopped short from further ranting by her unusual acidity. "Um, pet, what's wrong?"

Petunia looks up from feeding Dudley, whose happy burbling can't break through her sorrow and rage. She gives Vernon a moment to take in her face, and watches his own become slightly concerned. "My sister's dead—killed two nights past by a mad man with delusions of Hitler."

"Oh. I'm sorry, pet."

He tries to say it as a statement, but it comes out more like a question. Petunia blinks for a moment, then narrows her eyes. "Sorry like that is what you say when you bump into someone on the sidewalk."

Vernon shrugs, fidgeting. "Well, you never seemed close, you know. So, I wasn't sure what to say."

"We were close when we were young—very close. Yes, we drifted apart when she started going to school—further when you and I married and you expressed your views of my family's…peculiarities, and further still when she suddenly married _that man_, but for God's sake, Vernon! She was my baby sister, and she's dead, murdered, and that man too, and there are so many things left unsaid"—she sucks in a breath and lets it out in a stutter—"that can never be said now."

Dudley wails "Foo!" and Petunia shakily spoons another mouthful of rice cereal into his mouth. He waves his chubby hands in the air, grinning baby teeth and messy face making her smile softly.

"That's what all the strange stuff yesterday was about," she says, voice more level. "The owls, the shooting stars, the wizards freely roaming about in their garb amongst Muggles. There's been a war in their world, you know, almost eleven years now it's been that way. But it ended those two nights past, with Lily's death."

Vernon scoffs lightly, but the sound is still very audible to Petunia's ears. "Those unnatural people—at least they kept it to themselves, their war. Yesterday's spectacle was abhorrent, though. Quite rude of them, really. They shouldn't do things like that where nice, normal people have to deal with it."

"I used to be one of those unnatural people," Petunia reminds him coldly.

"But not anymore, you have a normal life now," Vernon says, voice full of pride.

There are many times when Petunia struggles to remember why she chose to date and ultimately marry Vernon Dursley. She knows a large part of it is what he already mentioned—an intense desire to be normal, a way to separate herself further from Lily and the burning resentment she felt towards Lily's new world, the world that slowly pulled her baby sister away from her, the world she was not welcome in.

Vernon was as plain, forthright, and ordinary as they came, which was why he had been perfect at the time. She sighs and shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of memories. She opens her mouth to tell Vernon the rest, but Dudley suddenly squeals with laughter. "Mama, baby! Baby 'wake, Mama!"

"Has he gone daft? Of course he's awake," Vernon snaps.

"Of course he's not daft!" Petunia snaps back. "He means the other baby is awake." It's hard to bite back other name calling, but she does it for the simple reason that there are things more important than her anger at his callousness.

"Other…baby…" Vernon's face pales first, then begins to flush. "Now, see here, Petunia, you had better not be saying what I think you're saying. I told you that we would have nothing to do with those…those freaks, and that includes the children of freaks."

"My sister was one of those freaks, and I grew up in the fringes of that freakish world," she hisses. "By blood, by association if not actual ability, I _am_ one of those freaks, Vernon."

"You just got done telling me that your sister and brother-in-law were murdered by a mad man, and you expect me to calmly accept the boy? God's sake, woman, think! Now we'll be the next target! I can't believe you agreed to take him, without consulting me first. I would have put this nonsense to a stop before things got this far."

"Before Harry was orphaned and left alone on our stoop in the middle of the night, with only a letter to explain things?" She looks away from Dudley to the sleepy green eyes blinking up at her from her lap. "Go to work, Vernon," she says, suddenly tired beyond belief. "I have "freakish" visitors arriving this afternoon to explain things to me—and I need to hit the grocers before that to pick up more baby products."

"We're not keeping him, Petunia!"

She smiles, pulling Harry up so that he's visible over the table. "You don't have to keep anyone, dear. And you won't keep anyone if you don't head to work, cool down, and speak to me like an adult and your wife when you return."

Vernon splutters, face now a violent shade of purple. "I'll not have you allowing those kinds of people into my home! Especially when I'm not here to insure that they don't do anything…strange!"

Arching an eyebrow, Petunia says coolly, "Whose home, darling?"

"My—er, our—"

"I do believe the majority of this home was paid for with my trust fund and the interest from my investments. Do correct me if I'm wrong."

Vernon scowls, eyes narrowing. "We'll speak more later. I'm late for work as it is."

"Of course, darling. Your lunch is in the fridge. Have a wonderful day at work."

Petunia rolls her eyes as she listens to Vernon stomp to the fridge, open and slam the door, stomp through the hall, and open and slam the front door. She looks at Dudley, grinning with food drying on his cheek. She looks down at Harry, face still red from the too-long stain of salt tracks, the cause-unknown scar peeking angrily out from under baby curls.

His eyes seem slightly out of focus, as if he can't quite see her, or he is looking through her. Then, like Dudley, he grins. She smiles back, thinking _Oh, Lily, he's definitely your son!_ and fights the urge to cry yet again.

After a few moments of taking in the sight of smiling boys to hold close in her memory, Petunia shakes her head and stands. "All right, boys, we have lots to do and little time to do it in. Our visitors may find "Muggles" quaint, but I'll show them that we're a force to be reckoned with, yes? Especially when their side isn't as knowledgeable as they think they are."

* * *

The doorbell is rung at promptly half past three. Petunia is surprised, but careful not to let it show, when she opens the door to the sight of five people standing on the stoop. She arches an eyebrow, her gaze centered on the obvious leader of the group. "Quite a number of followers you have with you. I understood from your letter that this was to be a small meeting, and that my address was to remain undisclosed."

"Ah, Petunia. I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore of Hogwarts, and I must say that is delightful to finally meet you. Lily spoke of you so often; it feels as though I know you from personal experience."

She eyes his robes, lavender with black trim and iridescent gold sparkles, and bites the inside of cheek. To think that she once corresponded with this man, in a desperate attempt to join sister and friend at their school. Truthfully, though, she wasn't all that surprised by his appearance. "A pleasure, sir, to finally meet the man who entitled Lily to expand her horizons from our home to the school of Hogwarts," she murmurs, careful to keep her eyes focused slightly below his.

"Alas, that it takes a terrible tragedy like this for us to finally meet," Dumbledore says gently.

Her hand clenches on the doorknob. "Indeed. I will listen to what you have to say, and I expect you to answer any questions that I may have, Headmaster. Is that understood?"

"Who does the Muggle think she is?"

Petunia glares over Dumbledore's shoulder, unsure which of the hooded figures spoke. "I am the elder sister of Lily Evans," she says tightly. "And you will be civil in my house and presence, or you will leave."

"Of course, my dear, of course," Dumbledore says, his expression and tone soft still. "May we come inside? These matters will take some time to discuss, and I think it would be best if we were all comfortable for the duration."

"Of course," Petunia simpers. When Dumbledore smiles broadly, she adds, with a calculating smile, "Of course, you may all come in, when I see your wands in front of you. As you come through the entrance of my home, you will see a table off to the left. You will place your wands on the pewter pedestal there, and we will proceed to my sitting room, where this…discussion will take place." Her voice is as hard as diamond, daring them to argue at their own peril.

"Leave our wands? Are you crazy?!"

Feminine, rough with age, and the same voice from before, Petunia thinks, smile hardening to a feral baring of teeth. "Crazy? Mayhap. Personally, I think grieving and angry to be more accurate. Perhaps it is you who are crazy, though, thinking that I would allow you into my home, armed, when I have two young children here—one of whom is quite traumatized enough, thank you."

"Peace," Dumbledore murmurs, turning his head to address the cloaked and hooded people behind him. "What she asks is but a small thing, and not so different from the formalities of guest and host rites in our own world." Turning back to Petunia, he says, "We will abide by your request, Mistress."

It's hard not to smile—it's been a long time since she's been addressed so, but the fact is that she never expected to be called by such a title ever again. "Thank you for your consideration and word, Elder. I welcome you and your companions into my home. Please, come in."

She stands to the side as they walk through one at a time. Her eyes are hawk-like as she watches them place their wands on the pedestal, three of the four hooded members obviously reluctant to do so. She grins, feeling fierce with all the other rampant emotions, gesturing her visitors into her sitting room.

She follows after them, movements steady and sedate as she begins the soothing pattern of setting up refreshments. "I would appreciate seeing the faces of the people I'm speaking to," she says. "And if you wish anything specific in your tea or coffee, you'll need to speak up."

"What a wonderful idea," Dumbledore says with another one of his broad smiles. "Please, everyone, remove your hoods—we have little need for secrecy at the moment. And I would like three sugars in my tea, Mistress."

Petunia nods, fixes the tea, and passes it to Dumbledore. She arches an eyebrow expectantly at the still-hooded members.

A long sigh, and the one nearest Dumbledore pulls the hood back, revealing a woman of late middle years that Petunia recognizes as the woman who was moving into the empty house one street back, near the park, just that morning. She has a bland, somewhat angry expression on her face. "Mrs. Arabella Figg, Mistress. I am a Squib, childless widow, and longtime friend of Albus Dumbledore. And I'll take the tea plain—thank you."

Petunia fights the urge to smirk, nodding solemnly and politely as possible. This, then, is the one who spoke out so bitingly before, as well as the one that relinquished her "wand" with apparent ease even after making such a fuss of it. "Of course, Mrs. Figg."

The two seated on Figg's right throw their hoods back at the same time. This time, Petunia's smile is more genuine as she looks at the woman who needs no introduction, for she has changed little since the last time Petunia saw her. "Mistress McGonagall. Is it still one sugar and five creams?"

A small smile makes its way past the tight expression McGonagall wears, lending beauty to her stern, ageless-seeming face. "A good memory you have, Petunia."

"Thank you. And for you, sir?" Petunia looks at the man next to McGonagall, tipping her head to the side. "Tawny" is the first description to come to mind, hair long and wild like a lion's mane, eyes more gold than brown, canny and unblinking like a hawk. She can tell that, like his appearance suggests, this man is fierce, a force to be reckoned with.

"Chief Auror Rufus Scrimgeour, Mistress Evans." He doesn't flinch at using her birth name rather than married name, and that intrigues her, since few would dare to use a pre-married name for fear of offending. "And, honestly, I wouldn't mind something a little more potent than plain tea."

His voice is a medium rasp, and Petunia fights a shiver even as she smiles at the last part of his words. "I can do that, if you don't mind Muggle Jamaican rum as your poison."

Figg squeaks at the word "poison," McGonagall rolls her eyes, Scrimgeour smiles and nods, and an amused snort is heard from the only still hooded figure. Petunia pulls the bottle of rum out from under the couch, where she had placed it earlier as a just-in-case measure. She holds up the sugar spoon after adding the liquor, and Scrimgeour shakes his head.

"I prefer it strong and bitter—it seems more real that way."

"And poisons are easier to detect," the hooded figure grumbles.

Scrimgeour smiles again, and accepts the tea. "Of course."

Petunia looks at the only one unserved, whose voice had given the gender identity as male, and arches her eyebrow again. Silence hangs in the room, the low buzz of the central heating kicking in, seeming loud like a roar.

Dumbledore sighs and turns to the hooded man with a chastising expression. "Severus, come now. I know you don't wish to be here, but I need you to do this for me." After another moment of silence, he adds, "Please, my boy."

The hood is flipped back dramatically, and Petunia bites her tongue to keep her expression neutral. Night-black hair and eyes, olive skin, and a prominent Roman nose, full-lips peeled between sneer and snarl even while his arms cross in a child-like huff over his chest. Petunia knows this one as well, though it's been nearly six years since she last saw him. She can picture him so much younger than he is now, still an awkward, scruffy child in mismatched and too-large Muggle clothing.

"As I did not wish to be here, there is no need for my name, or for your…hospitality. Mistress."

This time, Petunia laughs softly, even as her eyes burn with unshed tears. She pulls the coffee carafe over and pours a cup, holding it out. "I would know who you are even if the Headmaster hadn't said your name, Severus Prince, Slytherin, Lily's friend, imp and bane of my childhood. And I believe you would love a cup of Evans' coffee—you look as though you need it."

His expression is startled, Dumbledore's pleased, McGonagall's bemused, Scrimgeour's wry, and Figg's befuddled. Severus gathers himself after a moment and bites out, "I—said—no—thank—you. Mistress."

She snorts at his 'Mistress' nonsense. "And I'm saying take the coffee like a good man before I'm forced to come over there and pour it down your throat."

"I'd like to see you try, Muggle," he sneers.

"Still ticklish in that certain place?" she asks sweetly.

Again his expression is startled. It settles into a scowl—a scowl that hasn't changed in twelve years, she notices, as he reluctantly holds his hand out, taking the cup. He sniffs at it, eyeing her warily as he takes a tentative sip. While the expression he adopts most certainly cannot be called blissful, there is a certain softening to Severus' expression, something akin to fondness that Petunia catches in his eyes and the twitching corners of his mouth.

Dumbledore smiles, and Petunia notices the almost unnatural twinkle of his blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles. "Thank you, Petunia. Now, shall we proceed?"

She smiles in return, careful to keep her teeth covered as she nods her head. "Of course."

"Might I enquire, before we get too involved, where young Harry Potter is?" McGonagall interrupts, an eyebrow arched.

"Lily's son and my own are lying down at the moment. We had a long morning—Harry more so, I imagine."

"I would like to see the boy, to assure myself of his well-being."

Petunia cocks her head to the side, eyes darting to each of her guests. All except for Severus are attentive on her, though Scrimgeour's gaze falls the most piercing. Serverus' gaze, however, is fastened to somewhere over her left shoulder, and she allows her teeth to show when she smiles this time. "And I would like to know what is going on, that my sister's son was left alone on my stoop in the middle of the night."

Her words cause an almost instantaneous flutter of activity, from rapidly changing facial expressions, to hand waving, to snarled curses. Severus' are the ones readily heard over the flurry.

"Are you insane, Headmaster?" he snarls, body rigidly held in place like a coiled snake. "You left the boy outside on the steps of this house? You may as well have left him in the house in Godric's Hollow to be picked off!"

"As much as it pains me to say, I agree," Scrimgeour says, smiling sourly at Severus before turning back to Dumbledore. "Dark Lord defeated or not, there are far too many Death Eaters unaccounted for, Dumbledore, which you know. And we know they're not shy about prowling in Muggle neighborhoods, so I have to wonder, on behalf of the Ministry if not for myself, what in the world you were thinking."

"I was watching!" Figg snaps. "She"—a hand is flung in Petunia's direction—"grabbed him at about five this morning."

"And we left him there around midnight," McGonagall says coolly. Her thin, black eyebrows are drawn into a disapproving frown. "I thought it foolish, Albus, and I told you so. It seems I'm not the only one to have had that thought."

"Ah, but you also thought it foolish of me to leave the boy with this family in the first place," Dumbledore reminds her. His eyes continue to show his apparent ease and amusement with the situation. "You watched them all day, and told me they seemed—oh, what was it?—ah, "the worst sort of Muggles imaginable"."

Petunia arches an eyebrow as McGonagall colors and looks away. "On the one hand, I suppose anyone from your world viewing my family would make that assumption. I won't lie—I very much have wanted to be normal, a Muggle, and my husband has never liked where I came from and where my sister continued to live. I take no offense to your thoughts, Mistress McGonagall, because you were expressing them in Harry's best interest.

"However, that still doesn't address the fact that Harry was left with only a Squib to watch over him, when those who helped to murder his parents are still at large."

"It's true I can't really do magic, but I have a wand that can alert anyone I need in case of emergency. And, besides, what's a Muggle like you got any right to make such noises about a Squib?" Figg snaps.

Petunia sips her coffee before replying. "Squibs are the children of a union of at least one if not two magical parents, born without magic. Did you know, however, Mrs. Figg, that there people with magic in their blood perfectly capable and willing to live as Muggles?"

"Why would they want to? The wizarding world is so much better than this one," Figg says, expression a mix of disgust and awe.

We covet what we do not have, Petunia thinks bitterly. "From your view, perhaps."

"But Lily was a Muggleborn," Severus interjects. "Neither of your parents had magic."

Petunia shrugs her shoulders; Severus knows her better than anyone else present, knows her situation from before, but she realizes that he, also, knows so little about her now. "My home is perfectly capable of protecting Harry—without the aid that the Headmaster has outlined I should accept in his letter. The aid I can offer requires Harry to be within the boundaries of the house itself, though. There are other locations more secure than this, it's true, but considering that the house lies out in the open, it's secure enough—more secure than the house in Godric's Hollow was," she adds darkly.

"Fine." Figg continues to scowl, even after enduring a chastising glance from Dumbledore. "We can see that you think yourself capable of keeping the boy safe. What we need to discuss then is what other measures will be taken to insure that the boy continues to stay safe elsewhere. I believe a rotating Auror watch would go a long way to—"

"No." Petunia sets her cup down, eyes narrowing. "Harry will have a normal childhood—or as close to one as he can get."

"You can't protect him always," McGonagall says gently. "What about his early schooling?"

"Mayhap we can renegotiate later. For now, though, I'll tolerate the Squib woman, since I recognize that she's already living in the neighborhood. No one else is allowed near the house—in fact, I really don't like that the five of you know where he will reside, but there is little I can do about that."

"What about knowledge, training? I can't believe you're going to raise him ignorant of the world he rightfully belongs to," Severus says.

She remembers him as a boy, the hurtful things he could say, and yet she can also remember that awkward comfort he attempted to provide. "Funny, I thought that those with magic were raised to belong to the world as it is, not as it's segregated by the people living in it. And I don't think that sort of pressure—to "fit in," to be molded to a set of beliefs and ideals—is good for a child. Harry will be raised to see and understand the world so that he can form his own ideas and opinions."

"I think that's a marvelous idea, Petunia!" Dumbledore says brightly.

"Fine. Then what of accidental magic? And what will you tell him about his parents?" This time, Severus is leaning forward when he addresses her, eyes narrowed, lips set flatly.

Petunia remembers being a vicious child, remembers a tree branch falling and hitting her shoulder—remembers wilted daisies, chapped lips apologizing, and solemn dark eyes. "Lily and…James died in a car wreck, for now—Harry was there, thus his scar. I will tell him the truth later. I will not raise him with thoughts of hatred and revenge. As for accidental magic, it will be tolerated easily. I have quite a lot of experience in that."

Severus sits back a bit, head bobbing in a brief nod. "He'll want to know why he is different."

"And that will be easy enough to explain. Because he is Lily's son. Because it's all right to be special, as long as others don't notice. Some things are for family only," Petunia says softly.

His gaze goes from intense to curious. "How long have you…been flying under our noses, Mistress?"

She laughs bitterly, casting a burning glare at Dumbledore before dropping her gaze. He remembers before, she can tell, and wants to ask a different question than the one he did. "Longer than you've been alive. Perhaps longer than I've been alive. A closing word, guests, and then I ask all but Severus to leave my home." She holds up her hand to forestall their arguments. "I tell you now, the decision to attend Hogwarts shall be mine. I will be the one to decide what knowledge Harry receives and when, and I will not tolerate your interference in this."

"You can't keep him from the school. He's been on the list since birth!" McGonagall exclaims.

"I can and I will," Petunia says firmly. "There are other schools, Mistress. My concern first and foremost is for my children, which Harry now is. My husband doesn't understand this yet, but I am willing to sacrifice a great many things for my children's safety and happiness."

"I understand, Petunia." Dumbledore speaks softly, and for the first time he seems to be utterly serious and sincere. "The only thing I ask is that you allow Mrs. Figg contact with Harry at least once a month, so that I and the others may be apprised of his well-being."

She inclines her head. "That is acceptable."

"Then we shall take our leave." Dumbledore rises, followed by McGonagall and Figg. "Rest assured that everyone here is under Oath and incapable of revealing your home's location. Severus, please do not linger too long, my boy. We have much to do at the Ministry this week."

"File them in triplicate," Scrimgeour murmurs, rising as well.

Petunia pins Severus with a look that informs him to stay put—or else—and walks the others to the door. She exchanges polite yet tense goodbyes with Dumbledore and Figg, shares an awkward yet meaningful hug with McGonagall, and shakes hands with Scrimgeour, bemused to realize that he has slipped her his business card. After watching them Disapparate, she re-enters the sitting room to find that Severus has switched seats and is watching her with a look that dares her to say something.

She grabs her cup and takes his old seat. "I must have been told wrong."

"Told what wrong?"

"That you were from Slytherin House. Lily led me to believe that only males of the Gryffindor variety had a burning need to subvert anything resembling authority."

A snort of laughter, followed by a shake of his head, and Severus is smiling faintly. "Yes, that does sound like something she would say. But surely it isn't just for reminiscing that you asked me to stay."

"I suppose the better question is, why did I trust you to stay, and why did I trust that the Headmaster would make sure you stayed."

He arches an eyebrow. "Why wouldn't he have let me?"

Petunia sips her coffee. "Because Dumbledore doesn't trust me or my intentions, and is most likely going to interrogate you concerning our discussion. We had many heated debates via letter concerning Lily, and he knows that I will not lie back and simply "take things" when my family is involved."

"All right. I can certainly see that. I must say, though, that he showed little animosity to you in this meeting."

"Why should he? Everything went the way he wanted it, and with a member of the Ministry here, he couldn't stray too far from the outlined idea, really," Petunia says, rolling her eyes.

"Hmmm, yes, especially given that Scrimgeour is hardly fond of the Headmaster. Now, I believe you mentioned something about me as well?"

"Yes. There is a mark on your left arm, something tainted. It's similar to a curse, thought not quite—I imagine that your choice was required for the mark to take."

Severus expression betrays nothing. "I would ask how you could know such a thing, but I doubt you'd answer me truthfully."

"I might surprise you. It's a family thing. As for how I can sense it when I imagine no one else can, it's just something I can do. But I know it marks you as one who followed the man who murdered my sister, which begs the question: If you are a follower of the man who orphaned Harry, then why should I trust you to be in the same home as Lily's son? Will you finish what your master began?"

There is quiet in the house as Severus sips his own coffee, brows drawn down into a thoughtful frown. He glances off to his left, lips pursed. Finally, he sets his cup down on the coffee table and laces his fingers together, staring at Petunia as if looking _into_ her.

It's very similar to the way that Harry looked at her earlier, Petunia thinks, shivering at a faint tickle in her head. The idea seems ridiculous at first, but then not so ridiculous as she watches traces of various emotional reactions cross Severus' face. The feeling recedes, and Severus slowly sits back in a slight hunch. "Find what you were looking for?" she asks softly.

"I shouldn't have done that." He speaks equally as soft, not quite meeting her eyes. "You, of all people, didn't deserve that from me. Tell me, Petunia, how secure is your home?"

She touches her eyes, ears, and mouth in turn, smiling. "As I said before, not as secure as some places, but more secure than most. Your Ministry would consider the wards here illegal, I suppose, since they were formed in the basis if old rituals which have a tendency to abused."

"Blood magic, then. Yes, most of it has been banned, but few would even be able to perform the rituals. They wouldn't have the belief, the power, the knowledge, or the wherewithal to perform such rites."

"Yet they offer the most sacred and secure protections possible—protections that would have kept Lily alive, had someone thought to use them."

"Blood magic fell out of general use over four hundred years ago, and the families that still retain such knowledge guard it fiercely. However, I do know that the Potters used a Fidelius Charm to guard their home, which really should have been enough."

"In a time of war? It's obvious that they were betrayed. Such a protection is far too easy to break, since a Secretkeeper doesn't have to be willing necessarily in order to betray the location they hide. Though, I'm guessing that they _were_ willingly betrayed, given they had no warning of the attack that claimed Lily's life."

Severus hesitates, finally meeting her eyes. "You trust me?"

She has a feeling it was supposed to be a statement, but it came out more like a child's uncertain question. "Did I protest your presence in my head?"

He grimaces, eyes flicking away briefly before returning. "I'm sorry. It was unethical of me to do that without warning or asking your permission."

"But you didn't do those things when you used your gifts for the Dark Lord—or for the Headmaster, did you? I imagine it's hard to return to asking for permission when you haven't done it for so long."

He realizes, finally, that she is not only "giving him an out," she genuinely understands why he did what he had. She is also accepting his apology without recrimination. "You are correct that it has been a long time since I have asked for anything," he says softly.

"I'll be honest with you, Severus Prince. It's a bit disappointing that the boy Lily spoke so highly of, the boy I remember with both fondness and vexation, fell to the Dark Lord. I don't know all of the circumstances, though, so I won't cast aspersions. Lily only ever wanted peace, to enjoy and live life with magic. That life wasn't for me, not with the way your world had shifted and molded over the years. Better to deny magic and be an ordinary Muggle than to be driven mad by the shackles of a society who wants to keep their meager power, but fears those with _real_ power."

"You have many places in your mind that are tightly closed. I would drive you mad trying to break the doors to those thoughts and memories, and there's nothing to guarantee that I would see them before your mind shut down completely.

"You insist that you're an ordinary Muggle, though your sister was a very powerful witch. I thought you Muggle as well, for I never sensed power within you when we were children. Lily was Muggleborn, we were told—this I thought I knew for myself, considering that neither of your parents were magical. Yet you seem to know much of our world, more than Lily herself knew, at least until she made certain friends. In fact, you seem to know and understand things on the level of a Pureblood from an Old Blood family."

"I won't explain myself to you at this point, Sev. Suffice it to say, my name would never appear on any list for magical births, whether school or ministry. In fact, Lily's name wouldn't have appeared either, had our mother not gone into labor while shopping in London. Lily was born three weeks early, outside of our family's home. She was the first child in hundreds of years to be born outside of the family home.

"You have to understand, much of this stuff was only learned after my parents' deaths." Petunia smiles sadly, spreading her hands. "My father's journals, especially, were illuminating. I never got the chance to share this with Lily. Her…husband….didn't like me much, and the feeling was mutual. Now, I'll never get to share these things with her, and they are things that could have saved her life."

"They couldn't have saved her life if the Headmaster continued to insist on the Fidelius Charm, because the Secretkeeper was friend of Potter's."

Petunia shakes her head. "I just can't see either of his friends betraying him willingly, never mind that the man didn't deserve such loyalty."

"Either?" Severus frowns, drumming his fingers over his knee. "Potter was part of a group of four friends. And, you must remember, with the war on everyone was suspect, really."

"Four? Hmmm… Black worshipped the ground that man walked on, and the cursed one, though lacking in confidence, was devoted not only to Black, but was quite close to Lily as well. In fact, she wrote that she was working on a formula to help his condition, so that it wasn't as violent."

Severus smiles wistfully, and the expression seems out of place yet fits him all the same. "She sent me her notes. It's brilliant work. The fact is, though, that Black was arrested early this morning for betraying the Potters, and for killing Peter Pettigrew—that's the friend you were unaware of—as well as killing thirteen Muggles. Dumbledore informed me before we came here that Black was sentenced to Azkaban, without trial."

Petunia shakes her head, biting her lip. "Oh, poor Lupin. That just doesn't add up! I knew there were things that I wouldn't be told, but I feel your Headmaster is determined to keep me in the dark about far too much. I just don't like it."

Severus fidgets, tugging on the hems of his sleeves, pulling the fabric of his robes tight over his knees. "There are things I would tell you, but I am bound by Oath specifically from telling you. Then there are other things that I'm glad I can't tell you, because I would like to think that the woman caring for Lily's son can sleep easier at night."

"That truly is a lovely sentiment, but it also makes me further determined to make sure that Harry never sets foot in the wizarding world."

"The Headmaster and the Ministry won't let you keep him away. The boy's scar is from surviving the Avada Kedavra death curse—it killed his parents, but not him. Now, Dumbledore says that it's from Lily sacrificing herself for Harry, that love destroyed the Dark Lord."

"But that can't be everything, because Lily certainly wasn't the first to sacrifice herself for her child," Petunia scoffs. "Yes, there is power in a willing sacrifice. There always has been power there, as long as the one making the sacrifice is perfectly at peace with what they are doing and why. But there isn't enough power by itself to defy a death curse, not one cast with as much hatred and determination as there must have been."

"There is another thing…" Severus hesitates, gaze inward and he chews briefly on his bottom lip. "I know you won't say whether I'm correct or not, but… Few people know me as Severus Prince—you and Lily were the only two who knew me as that from childhood. My father was a Muggle, and truly was one of the worst sorts imaginable, as you'll no doubt remember. My mother destroyed everything that she was to bring me into the world as her magical and familial heir. However, Ministry registration adopts the patronymic, even in the case of the mother being the magical parent. To the wizarding world at large, I am Severus Snape, from an obscure Pureblood family. In truth, I am a halfblood, and the last of the Prince line.

"Before my mother was committed—that would have been in 1971, the first year Lily and I went to Hogwarts, if you remember—she taught me as much about my line and heritage as she could, about the state of the Old Blood families as possible. We have leys that we can access, those of us who are Old Blood or simply very powerful. But the Ministry warded the leys long ago, and their power is relegated to certain kinds of access. Families in their ancestral homes aren't allowed to access the leys because they are feared—the Ministry would be unable to control an Old Blood who was using the ley their family has been tied to for hundreds or thousands of years.

"But the night Lily was killed, there was a huge backlash across the leys. We were told it was because the Ministry allowed unrestricted access to the Aurors that night, but I and several close friends were skeptical. The…flavor, if you will, of the access was unformed, like a mind aware but yet to be organized, full of fear and anger. One associate said they were certain that there was only one access point as well, not the many that there would have been had it truly been the Ministry Aurors."

"So, you think it was Harry."

"Yes. Children shouldn't be able to access the leys, warded or not. But I think he did, overcome by emotions, and that raw power is what really helped Harry to survive the death curse."

"Hmmm." Petunia finds it hard not to appear too interested. Severus' story of his life, as well as what happened the night of Lily's death, is very intriguing, but she wants to keep the balance of power clearly in her favor. "I don't suppose they were able to trace the access point, these friends of yours?"

"No. But we know that it wasn't in Godric's Hollow, nor was it at Thaineheim, the Potter's ancestral home."

She makes a small sound, fighting a smile. "No. Where were you at that time, though?"

"Of the murders?" Now Severus looks both uncomfortable and miserable. "I was there, at the house in Godric's Hollow, outside."

"I'd ask how you could have allowed it to happen, but I'm guessing that you had orders not to interfere, from both sides, no matter the result."

"I didn't expect the Headmaster to leave them completely unguarded!" he blurts out. "I didn't know it was planned until last minute, the attack, but I—"

"I'm not blaming you, though I wish to blame someone," she interrupts gently.

He bites his lip, slumping back into the couch. "The Headmaster saved my life, helped me attempt to make up for the evil things I did. I can never make them up completely, but the Headmaster gave me a chance at redemption."

"I understand." Petunia pauses, thinking about what he's told her, what she saw in the brief meeting today. She glances over Severus' left shoulder, eyes narrowing as her thoughts tighten to a fine point. "None of that helps to change my mind, you know. Did the Headmaster reach out a hand to Severus Prince, the Potions' Master who has much to offer the world, or to Severus Snape, the angry and bitter boy who could be manipulated?"

Severus bristles at her words. "Manipulated? I'll have you know, I—"

"Weren't you? Did the Dark Lord not play on your darker thoughts and desires? Did the Headmaster not play on your horror and regret? Do they not know your whole life's story well enough to know exactly what to say and when to say it? When exactly did Dumbledore reach out to you? Was it when he realized his dear student had fallen to the Dark, or was it when he realized he was losing the war and they needed an edge of some sort in order to survive, one that you conveniently offered?"

A bitter laugh escapes Severus, and he flexes his hands like claws. "How is it you're able to make everything seem like a sinister plot?"

"Whom do I have to trust?" Again, Petunia spreads her hands before her. "Everyone I had has been taken away from me, and what I have left is being threatened as well. I see threats, lies, and manipulation everywhere. And the worst part is that I have few options open to me. The current Ministry loves the idea of "quaint, eccentric" Muggles but gives Muggle relations little power in their world.

"I could hide away at our family's old home, but I have a feeling that the world would suffer for my selfishness. I have been the way I am for too long in order to change effectively, yet I often find I'm the only one I have to rely on. Black is beyond me, and though I couldn't have trusted him for my sake, I could have trusted him for Harry's. Lupin can't help me either, because his curse causes such a distasteful reaction with the Ministry. The others Lily spoke of are yourself and an upperclassman, a Narcissa Black, whom I know little about except for Lily's schoolgirl fondness and friendship."

"The furor that would come from you contacting Narcissa is almost amusing to contemplate. However, I doubt communication between the two of you would be allowed or tolerated. Not only is she Sirius Black's cousin—the cousin of the man who betrayed the Potters and caused their death, the cousin of the man who was a follower of the Dark Lord—but she is also the wife of Lord Lucius Malfoy, confirmed yet reluctant Death Eater and member of the Old Blood Pureblood families that are classified as Dark-aligned by the Ministry.

"Sirius was tolerated because he was "redeemed" from his upbringing by his association with Potter. Lord Malfoy has been tolerated simply because the family is one of the five richest in Britain, and has donated generously to various Ministry functions and foundations. Money, though, is really all they have left—that, and fear."

"Malfoy—mal foi—mal fey—mal du les fees—mer du les fees," Petunia murmurs. "I can see why the family would be feared. In any incarnation of name, they're a bit…intimidating."

Severus arches an eyebrow. "That is more about the Malfoy line than I have ever heard—and what I have heard is from Lord Malfoy himself."

Petunia shrugs. "Then it's not my place to say more, since it seems I've already said too much."

"Whose place will it be, then, to say these things?"

"Harry's, or anyone that he trusts with the knowledge. I wasn't supposed to be the successor to the knowledge, really, Lily was. So the knowledge would have gone to her heir, which is Harry."

"You play a dangerous game, Tuney." Her childhood nickname falls absently from his lips, and tears prickle the corners of her eyes as he continues. "Many would kill for the knowledge you apparently have."

"Ah, but you are the only one who knows that I have this knowledge." She wipes at her eyes and smiles faintly. "And as you said before, even you would have destroyed my mind if not out-right killed me trying to retrieve that information from me."

"There are potions that could make you tell the truth."

"Only if a person knows the right questions to ask."

Severus snorts. "Fine, I yield."

Petunia smiles, a small laugh escaping. "There are things about my family that I don't know fully—things I'm not sure my parents even knew fully. I know that I can't bury my head in the sand any longer. However, I won't let that boy be a tool. I will leave here before I let that happen, and the wizarding world will never see Harry Potter."

Severus twitches, and she thinks it's the closest thing to a flinch she'll ever see from the man. "I would ask that you not do that."

"Oh? And why is that? What is it to you if I take the boy into hiding?"

"For many, yes, he will be a tool, a figurehead—both for who he is, and for what he managed to do, whatever consequences brought it about. But, for others, he represents so much more."

She leans forward, lacing her hands together on her knee. "Tell me."

"A last chance to be free of the Ministry's chains—a last chance for the Old Blood families to be what they were, what they still _are_ under the weight of wards, a chance for them to return to their ancestral homes, to be more than creatures deteriorating into madness. At a little over a year old, Harry touched the leys so deep that nearly every Old Blood family felt the echo in their homes. That's more than any Old Blood or tied-in Ministry official has been able to do since the wards were placed. Lily's son is our last chance for freedom, Tuney. I know you have little love for our world, or little trust, but among the Old Blood he will be a savior, beloved, and a power to be reckoned with."

"The Headmaster will never allow that. You know it."

"But, what the Headmaster doesn't know to suspect…"

"Perhaps. I daren't let you stay much longer—my husband will be home soon and he has no love or tolerance for magic. I want you to take this." She hands him a small, jeweled pin. "It's an old family heirloom, which will allow you access through the wards of this house if I will it. It will also allow me to communicate with you, should I be in need of your help."

"Oh?"

"I am not so foolish as to think I could possibly handle everything that will come up during Harry's childhood, and you are the only one I nominally trust to help me."

"Even with my allegiances in question?"

"I don't feel they're in question. You're loyal to the Old Blood and their ideals now, despite any other past loyalties. I would think that quite obvious."

"I see." He looks down at the pin, framing it between thumb and forefinger. "Black and silver serpents, twined around lapis lazuli. This is indeed old and valuable, as well as highly appropriate. I swear to keep it safe."

"If you wish to Disapparate, the wards will now allow it."

"Thank you. I am no fond of being gawked upon."

"Somehow, I'm not very surprised that hasn't changed," Petunia says dryly.

Severus gives her a wry smile in recognition of her tone. "Then, until later, Mistress Petunia Evans."

She inclines her head. "Until later, Master Severus Prince. Oh, and, Sev?"

"Yes?"

She waits until his eyes meet hears, and she finally allows that sorrow she feels free reign. "I know you loved her, loved her more deeply and fiercely than that man ever did. I don't know what happened that last year and a half of school, but I do know that she missed you—and I'm sorry that you never had the chance to set things right between you."

A lone tear slide down one cheek as he closes his eyes, jaw tight, hands fists at his sides. "Thank you," he whispers, and then Disapparates.

Petunia glances once more to the left of where he had sat, to the play pen settled in the corner between couch, window, and bookcase. Dudley is still asleep—probably one of his longest naps ever, she thinks wryly. Harry sits propped up in the far corners, eyes wide, mouth pursed as if he had taken in and understood everything that had happened that afternoon.

"Severus was the only one who didn't make a fuss about your whereabouts, poppet—seems he knew right where you were. You'll have to be much cannier if you're going to pull one over on him," Petunia murmurs with a sigh, glancing at the mess of tea cups lying on the table.

Harry burbles a laugh, and small ripples dance across the surface of any remaining liquid.

"Yes, you'll be clever," she says with a laugh, rising to her feet. She stretches her arms overhead, wincing as her joints pop. She glances at the clock, mentally counting the time she has to make dinner and clean up the room before Vernon arrives home. She snorts and thinks that she should hold off on dinner until she sees what kind of attitude he comes home with. No point in slaving over food if he deserves self-served cold cuts.

"Clever like your Aunt and Mum," Petunia continues, moving to the play pen. She picks Harry up with a smile, balancing him on her hip. She kisses his forehead, then turns to set him up in the chair while she turns back to wake up and pick up a fussy Dudley. Carefully she balances both boys on her hips, moving slowly through the house to the kitchen. She sets them up in highchairs and bibs, and settles them with juice in sippy cups and small bowls of dry cereal.

She hums brightly as she moves back and forth between the kitchen and the sitting room, cleaning up from her visitors. Severus has given her both questions and answers, as well as given her room for thought and hope.

The front door opens and shuts, and she listens to Vernon take off his coat and set his briefcase down. He shuffles down the hall and pauses uncertainly in the doorway, looking at her and the boys in turn. "Pet, I…" He shakes his head, lips pressing into a flat line.  
Petunia smiles and nods. "I see. Well, then, sit down, Vernon, since it seems that I have a lot to say and you have a lot to listen to." Her smile widens when he hurries to sit, and she begins to tell him, in excruciating detail, _exactly_ how things are going to be.


	5. The Snake That Bites Its Tail

See Prologue for warnings and disclaimers.

Something More Than This  
Part III  
The Snake That Bites Its Tail  
by Mina

_December 1981_

Narcissa receives a curt request to meet Severus outside of Astoria at noon, two days hence. She smoothes the parchment in front of her for a moment, then hands it to Lucius with a slight frown.

Lucius snorts and sets the request aside. "How like him. The first word we've had in six weeks, and it's a request to borrow my wife."

"Lucius, you know it's—"

"I know." His tone, like his expression, is cold and remote. She wonders if he can endure, through his father, through the upcoming schedule of trials, without shattering. She rises from the table, steps forward until she can lay her hand on his chest where his heart beats so very slow. She waits for his eyes to meet hers before speaking. "Remember, darling, that Severus is in your heart equally as much as Draco, as myself. And be reassured that it is the same for Severus."

Silver eyes blink slowly, gaze unwavering—Narcissa has often thought that, if snakes could blink, this is what they would look like. "I just wish…I knew more."

He shrugs, and she pulls her hand back. "We will. It's not that he doesn't wish to see you, you know."

Lucius says nothing more, turning and staring unseeing out the window, arms crossed in front of his chest, and Narcissa struggles to keep her tears within her heart.

* * *

Astoria is a cold, foreboding place, despite what the advertisements for the facility say. Narcissa thinks that Severus is punishing himself by doing this, though she is glad for being asked to accompany him.

Severus wears grey and green, and though the colors bring him to light, they do nothing to hide the dark circles beneath his eyes or the emotional deadness reflected from sloe depths.

Narcissa smiles faintly and hooks her arm through his when he offers it, falling into step with him as they enter the doors.

The walls are a sunny shade of pale yellow, lush plants lining the foyer. The nurse on duty stands and smiles wanly when she sees them.

"Healer Nott," Severus says with a nod.

Teresa Nott nods in return, her dark curls bouncing as she moves forward. "Severus. I've done what I can. You'll have about twenty minutes before the registry will be reactivated. She's in room three today."

"Thank you. Twenty minutes should be enough."

Narcissa nods to Teresa as well, and makes no mention of the fact that as they near room three it is Narcissa who leads and Severus who follows.

The door is open, sunlight filling the room. Large, intricate pictures of plants are spello-taped to the wall, showing dissections and labeled minutiae. In the corner, huddled in a dark green armchair, a head of lank blackish and grey hair is visible, twisted in pale hands.

Severus halts, and Narcissa stands awkwardly next to him. The silence in the room is stifling, but she has no idea how to change it; it's not her place to speak here.

After what feels like forever, Severus hoarsely says, "Hello, Mother."

The woman in the chair jerks, and clouded sloe eyes stare. "You. I know…you are…"

Narcissa feels Severus' arm jerk, and she soothingly rubs his shoulder.

"Severus, Mother. I need…" His mouth works for a moment, and again Narcissa finds herself struggling to contain tears. "I need your help."

Eileen stares unblinking, her hands continuing to work the ends of her hair. "I had a son…I think. You're my son?"

"Yes. Your heir, Mother. Severus Hadrian Prince."

Eileen smiles slowly, and for a moment Narcissa can see the unique beauty that was once Severus' mother before the Ministry ley wards drained her near dry of everything. "Severus…yes. In dreams, I remember. My son. My everything."

Severus is shaking, and Narcissa wants to hold him together.

"I need help, Mother. I need to know…I need to know if you remember where the Prima Origa Magus is."

This time, it is Narcissa who jerks, and her eyes are wide as she stares between son and mother.

"I think…" Eileen's eyes cloud once more. "We were of the loyal generals, and the snake trusted us. Yes, he left us to watch, to lead in his stead. We of the home of a shadowed cross. First origins?"

"Yes." Severus' voice is still thick, and still he shakes.

"The center of the sun." Eileen sits up straight, her hands claws digging nails into the flesh of her arms. Her eyes are bright and narrowed, her jaw clenched. "Go to the center of the sun, Severus, if you want the origins. The room is safe. The answers are there."

"Thank you, Mother."

"What has happened?" she asks sharply.

Severus shakes his head. "No time, Mother. Simply that a Dark Lord had risen and fallen, though he's not yet dead, and the life of a boy, a Breaker, is at stake."

"Open the house, Severus. All of you, open your homes, if you want this chance!"

With that, and with a shudder that leaves Eileen crumpled in the arm chair, the lucidity is gone, and once more a vacant woman stares at them. "Who are you?"

"No one, Mistress," Severus whispers, and pulls Narcissa from the room in a whirl that nearly lifts her from the floor.

Severus is quick, nearly too quick, to race for the doors of Astoria. Narcissa struggles to slow his pace, both so that she can stay on her feet and their departure doesn't look suspicious. When they exit, Severus halts near the entrance gates, breathing harshly.

"Severus," she murmurs, raising her hand to touch his cheek.

He flinches and sharply turns his head away. "Thank you, Narcissa. You may go, now."

Narcissa bites the inside of her cheek. "I am not a girl-child to be sent away, Severus."

"I have what we came for. You are no longer required."

She wants to hit him, and her hands fist tightly at her sides. It's probably what he wants, a physical pain to suffer rather than the emotional one. "I refuse."

"Fine. Then I am going home. Stay here, if you wish." And with that, he disappears in the crack of Apparation.

Snarling, Narcissa closes her eyes and Apparates after him. She catches him in the doorway of his hovel on Spinner's End and shoves him through the doorway before he can react, slamming it behind her with a wave of her hand. He staggers into the table and whirls with his wand out, face an emotionless mask, eyes sparking with rage and grief.

"This is foolish, Severus! We have this chance, we have what's left to us, and we're still falling apart. Lucius grows colder every day, you burn with your anger and sorrow, and neither of you will accept my help!"

He falters slightly, wand wavering. "I didn't ask for your help."

"Didn't you?" She steps closer, reaching a hand up to the clasp that holds her hair. She pulls it free, shaking her head to loose her hair. It falls around her face, down her breasts, and over her back in thick, damp waves.

Severus' breath catches, and his hand begins to tremble. "No." It's faint at first, then his jaw clenches and he repeats himself more firmly. "No, Narcissa."

"Let me, Severus. This hurting must be eased, or you'll poison yourself."

"Then let me be poisoned!"

She smiles, reaching out to grasp his wand. Slowly she pulls it from him, placing it gently on the table. She reaches up and touches his face, her fingers mapping the bones of his cheeks and jaw. "I can't do that, dear one."

"It's my choice," he says hoarsely.

"If you were alone, perhaps. But you are not alone, Severus. Draco needs you. I need you. And gods above and below, if we lost you now, then Lucius wouldn't be far behind, because thoughts of you and Draco are all that's keeping him from freezing whole!"

With a sob he is in her arms and Narcissa catches him as best she can, staggering into the wall under his weight. She murmurs softly to him of love, of light, of memories, petting his hair, his cheek, any part she can reach. And when the worst of his tears have passed, she raises his head and kisses him.

She is gentle, coaxing as she continues to kiss and direct him towards the bedroom. She makes everything slow and gentle, as they undress, as she lays him down, as she worships his body.

He howls out apologies to the dead when she slides him into her, sinks down 'til he's in her core, and her hair is a curtain that hides them from the world. He calls out for his mother, for Lily, for Lucius as Narcissa kisses him and rides him gently, oh-so-gently to the pinnacle.

When he lies finally in exhausted slumber, Narcissa reclines at his side, slowly soothing the tight network of muscles and magic that have formed knots in his body. Severus doesn't move except for minor sleep-twitches, and she knows that sleep this deeply has been a long-time coming.

She cleans his face of salt-tracks, kisses his forehead with a soft smile, tucks the covers tight around him, and turns to gather her clothes. When dressed, she searches for parchment to write a quick note, asking that he join her family for dinner on the morrow.

She Apparates to the Manor. Lucius leans in an elegant slouch against the entry way, and his eyes never leave her as she approaches.

He looks her over slowly, and reaches out a hand to tug on her hair. "Enjoy yourself?" he asks coolly.

Narcissa smiles ferally, reaches out to fist his hair in her hand, and yanks him down to her level. She crushes his lips to hers, and pours out all the emotions that she had pulled from Severus into him.

With a sob, Lucius staggers away. His eyes are hematite burnished in water as he brings his shaking hand to his mouth.

"You tell me if I enjoyed myself, Lucius," she says.

He shakes his head slowly.

With a sigh, she steps forward again, her hands gentle this time. She kisses his cheek and lays her head to his shoulder. "He will come for dinner, tomorrow. Offer to help him find the sun in Schattenkreuz. It will give the two of you an opportunity to pull yourselves together."

She feels him nod against her head. "I love you, Narcissa."

"And I love you, Lucius. This is why I will not let us whither and die."

* * *

_  
October 1984_

Narcissa knows that if it weren't for the especially signed permit that Head Auror Rufus Scrimgeour had given her, the Aurors and other Ministry personnel at Azkaban would never let her in. They detest the fact that she is a Malfoy, even if only by marriage, and that she is allowed entry to visit family and others incarcerated.

She is amused by them and their unhidden emotions, especially their disgust and fear at having to remove the Dementors from the wings she visits. She can't blame their disgust—the Dementors are unnatural to the waking world, and should have been sent back to the aether long ago—but it doesn't stop her from finding humor in their ignorant fear.

She sees Bellatrix first. It's easier to release her anger and frustrations on her foolish sister. She listens to Bella's cooing about her Dark Lord, her snarls of planned revenge, her pleading for Narcissa's aid in escaping the prison.

Narcissa looks at her sister—the mad, unkempt, sadistic creature—and tells Bella to grow up, take a bath once in a while, and be glad that their mother isn't alive to see what Bella has become.

After Bella, she visits Martina Yaxley, and speaks in soft tones of Martina's family, of the weather, of the voices of the plants growing in the spring light. Martina stares into the dark and blinks back tears, but never speaks. A punishment from the Dark Lord severed her vocal chords, stealing her voice and Song.

Narcissa brings comfort to Talia Greengrass, Nella Flint, and Desiree Noname (neé Edgecombe). Gossip from the world, words from their families (those still claiming them), motherly hands for their tears and faces. They're too young for this, this prison, this world, but Narcissa can do more than this for them.

She whispers words of forgiveness and love to Foxglove Parkinson, words she is asked to repeat from his sister. She tells him of his niece, her growth, trying to make him proud of Pansy and her childhood though he cannot see it for himself.

She stands outside of the cells of Gabriel Rosier and Oisin MacDougal and weeps, saying soft, chanting prayers for the young men who may or may not have been guilty of the Ministry's accusations. Their minds had been all but destroyed through an Auror spell blunder, but they had been found covered in blood, amongst dead Muggles and Muggleborns, and the Dark Mark vivid on their left forearms. So Azkaban was their destination, no deliberation necessary for the mentally void. She hated their blank expressions, their total unawareness of the world around them—even each other—and hoped that, somehow, they could receive a swift and merciful end.

Her last stop of her monthly visitations is always her hardest. She doesn't care if the guards overhear her words to any of the others she sees, but she can't let them overhear—or, at least, can't let them _understand_—the words she speaks to the last inmate.

She demands that one of the guards fetch her a chair. She's been standing and walking all day, and tending to one small thing such as this is the least they can do. After all, it's a cushy job to be stuck taking her on her rounds, really.

She settles into the chair, ignoring the guards when they tell her she shouldn't get so close to this inmate's cell bars. She takes the reed flute from her sleeve—checked and triple checked, before finally being allowed—and beings to play a sweet, minor-key tune.

On the second repetition, she hears feet shuffle slowly closer, followed by a low keening whine. She slowly switches the tune to something brighter, emboldened as she can suddenly make out a huddled figure at the edges of the cell's shadows. She tips her head to the left and closes her eyes as she finishes the tune with a flourish. Slowly she puts the flute down in her lap and opens her eyes, smiling faintly.

If she took her own eyes and leeched their saturation, she would have the blue-tinted grey hue that gazes back at her. His face is gaunt beneath the unkempt facial hair she knows he detests, but his eyes are alive, and the whole of his soul is looking out to her.

"I wanted Andromeda, not you."

She smiles wider, touching the cell bars. "I haven't heard from her since the last letter I sent—three years gone, now."

He grunts. "Liar. What of James and Lily?"

Narcissa knows the guards think him mad, as he asks the question nearly every visit. She and he know better, though. "Tough going, from what I hear. I haven't heard from Lily in awhile, but I'm not worried yet. I'd know in my heart if something was wrong—wand sisters, you know."

"They talk and talk—say they're dead, that I did it. But it wasn't me. The moon did it, I think."

"Maybe. But I think they lied to you. The moon couldn't do it."

He nods. "I love the moon."

"And the moon loves you. It's been hiding away for so very long because it's hurt, but I think I can manage to coax it out."

He pales, reaching a hand towards her, but stopping when the guards move closer. "I don't want the moon to see me. I'm bad—bad dog, can't fetch the master's slippers," he mutters.

"All right. But I want to see the moon."

"Your choice."

"The birds are singing at home now. Great big birds, telling big stories."

"Lies!" he hisses.

Narcissa nods. "Yes, of course. But the mice and worms believe them."

"Idiots. Bet a dragon eats them up, snap, snap, snap!"

She grins. "Yes, someday. My dragon's a bit too small for that right now."

A shaggy eyebrow arches. "Full of red fire?"

She shakes her head. "Not really. More the storm, the waves of the ocean and the sting of lightning."

He laughs, an insane cackle. "They'll chain him up, you and him, to a rock. You'll be Prometheus, and the vultures will nibble your innards."

"But fire is necessary if you're going to brew, so there are some sacrifices required."

He shifts uneasily. "Don't like potions—slimy, slippery, down the gullet—pop!"

Smiling, she says, "Yes, you've always had a rather tumultuous relationship with potions, haven't you?"

"Too alike, too different," he says with a shrug.

"Yes. I think potions will help the moon, though. Lily thought so, too. We've made great strides."

He seems momentarily surprised, and she prays the guards don't note the lucidity. But then he says, "Maybe. Maybe winter will come in summer. I'd like icicles."

This puzzles her for a moment. "You hate winter."

He casts her a sly smile. "Not winter in summer."

Finally she understands, and it's hard not to laugh. "Yes, I see. Well, it's a bit early to say if it will happen or not. These things take time."

"Potency—takes a long time," he says, wrinkling his nose.

"Yes. All good things do."

"Almost too long. We're all dead—dead and walking unburied, no one to free us properly, to let us rest."

"Yes, but there's a chance for life. You should trust in the signs."

"All right."

"You'll be brave and patient?"

"If I must. I hate you," he sighs.

"I know. I hate you too."

"Don't come back, all right?"

"I will. Someone needs to tend to the mad."

She stands and steps to press against the bars, again ignoring the guards. His knuckles, rough and dirty, brush her cheek, his whiskers irritating her skin as his cracked lips press fleetingly to hers.

"Mrs. Malfoy!" one of her guards snaps. "Why do you insist on pressing your luck? One of these days he's gonna snap and kill you just like he did the Pott—"

The guard is unable to finish his sentence when Narcissa slaps him. She smiles coolly and says, "Do shut up about things you cannot know, Auror. And as for your mad prisoner, I've known him his whole life. If he kills me, I will have deserved it."

She turns back to the cell, murmurs, "'til next time, my Black Shuck," and leaves Azkaban with her head high and heart full of anger, hate, and sorrow.


End file.
